


with your name on my tongue and your death on my lips.

by Hoffmannism



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: (I mean if you wanna google), (sorry), (what else tbh), Alcohol Abuse, Also shitty advice given because the author doesn't know any good advice, Alternate First Meeting between Don and Liz, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Deep Talk with Julian, Brussels, Deep Talk with Dembe, Donnie should probably listen to his doctor, Dramatic Overuse of Commas, Dreams, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Flowers, Guilt, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Language of Flowers, Let's Call It Art, M/M, Partially Weird Use of Punctuation, Pre-Canon, Realism is for losers I DO WHAT I WANT, Shitty Dialogue because the author doesn't know how to hold a conversation, Suffering Donald Ressler, TW: Vomiting, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, What-If, it's all a little weird but weird is good, medication abuse, sorry that's a lot of tags i'll stop now ENJOY!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22186093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoffmannism/pseuds/Hoffmannism
Summary: If you could go back in time, knowing what you know now, would you spare me again? Or would you pull the trigger, avoiding all the hardships I put you through?(Or: what if Donald Ressler had taken the shot back in Brussels?)
Relationships: Julian Gale/Donald Ressler, Raymond Reddington/Donald Ressler
Comments: 13
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bonjour!  
> My next tbl-thing because apparently I can't chill.
> 
> 1\. This was supposed to be a short, like 5k long os. And then all Hell broke loose.  
> 2\. As I said, I wrote this as a OS, but had to cut it down into 2 chapters so it wouldn't be too long. Hope it still has the OS-feel, though.  
> 3\. Is actually a companion piece/follow-up to another thing. That I haven't written yet. But don't worry, you won't miss anything or get spoiled, this story works perfectly fine as a stand-alone.  
> 4\. I don't have much experience with meds abuse (apart from my short adventure with Novaminsulfon, lol), so I hope I didn't mess it up too badly. Also, don't do drugs, kids!  
> 5\. Halfway through the story I kinda fell into the Ress/Gale hole and it probably shows  
> 6\. The tags say it all. If you don't understand it, it's Art(tm)  
> 7\. One possible side-effect of Ambien [sleeping pills] is doing (stupid) things and forgetting about them. How can I not write about this?
> 
> Now, have fun with this thing! As always, English is not my first language, so please excuse any mistakes (or shove them right into my face so I can fix them). The author (that's me!) also loves feedback and will literally weep.  
> -Karen ♥

**  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
with your name on my tongue and your death on my lips.**  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
His hand is shaking. Slightly at first, then almost violently. He feels his stomach tighten as he watches the lifeless body on the train station's floor, blood oozing mercilessly from the shot wound in his chest. Dead eyes staring up at the ceiling. The panicking crowd around them is silent in his ears - he just sees shapes hurrying by, maybe someone screamed, but he doesn't hear it. Is blind to the things happening around him (someone is touching him, he can feel a hand on his shoulder, shaking, shaking him, but he only sees the horror he's created) and the pride he knows he should be feeling right now - the relief, the joy, the peaceful bliss - that's all buried deep in his chest under layers of fear and dread. _You would have regretted it_ , a voice tells him, _it was bound to happen, you did the right thing, it was your job, be a little festive!_   
  
But all there is is the nagging feeling that he just made a huge mistake. That shooting Raymond Reddington wasn't a neccessity. _This is how it ends? That was all? A pull of the trigger, a tiny movement of my finger, and it all just... stops?_  
  
The shaking is getting annoying and he pulls himself out of his misery. Looks up in Gale's face, sees the huge grin, and he wants to cry - he doesn't even know why. So he forces himself to grin back, ignoring all his thoughts and feelings and pretends to be proud and relieved. It's over, after all. He'll call Audrey, ask her if she'll take him back. They'll get married, he'll get a promotion, and they will live the best lives one could wish for. Yes. That's exactly what he's going to do now (after a hot shower and celebrating with the taskforce), and he will be alright. No, he will be better than alright. He will be the happiest man alive.   
  
  
So he lets Gale pull him to his feet and into an embrace. He barely feels it.   
  
"You got him, you lucky son of a bitch! It's over!" And Ressler grins. Yes, it's over, and that's a damned good thing. He just shot the most wanted man in America. Just like this.   
  
  
  
//

  
  
Donald tells himself that the next few days are like a dream: he gets showered in praise from all kinds of people; his name is all over the news, pronouncing him America's finest hero as if he'd just single-handedly won an entire war; Hell, even the President thanks him for his great service to the country. It's all rather overwhelming and now Ressler knows he's done the right thing. It's the first time he feels genuine relief since - probably since Audrey has said 'yes' so many lifetimes ago. It's also the first time in an eternity that he falls asleep in a matter of minutes, not dreaming a damn thing. He could get used to that.   
  
And as he'd thought, along with the congratulations and praise from the bureau, he gets the promotion. Has his own office now (a normal office in a normal building, no more blacksites and hotel rooms), and it all feels so damn _unreal_ as he sits in his new chair at his new desk, wondering what the future will have in store for him - he just knows it's gonna be _good_. He's a hero. His father would have been proud; his mother almost cried on the phone when she called him after seeing him on the news. He's a hero and Raymond Reddington will soon be forgotten. Ressler has won; he has his own team now - all of them brilliant and a pleasure to work with; all of them new faces except for Gale, and he's glad about that change, trying to put as much distance between Brussels and now. Between himself and Reddington.  
  
 _Reddington_ , he thinks, and he sees those dead eyes again. The blood. The spilled coffee on the ground. _So that's what they call 'heroics'._   
  
But he doesn't have time for sentiments now; he has a job to do.  
  
  
//   
  
  
  
Audrey doesn't take him back. She's engaged to another. Of course his heart breaks a little more at that, but he wants her to be happy. She says that he'll be busy with work; it won't change now that Reddington is dead. And as much as he tells himself, _this time it's different!_ , he just knows she's right. So he wishes her all the best, turns, and leaves her for good.   
  
  
//   
  
  
It's been a week since Reddington's death. They cremated him, gave him a plain, unimpressive grave that the criminal surely would have hated. There's no ceremony, no speeches. Not even Reddington's family is there when the urn is buried under a heap of earth. Ressler almost thinks he's the only one there, but when he looks around he sees a tall black man standing in the shadows of a naked birch, watching with sad, tired eyes. It's Reddington's bodyguard.   
  
Ressler stands there for a long time after the cemetery workers leave, alone at the fresh grave. There's an endless emptiness inside of him, swallowing every thought, every emotion. So he just stands there, staring at the loose earth (no flowers, just brown, hopeless earth, so loose he almost thinks Reddington could simply crawl out again), thinking about nothing at all; he starts to shiver when the winds pick up and the sun slowly disappears behind the horizon. So with a sigh he leaves, telling himself that he won't ever come here again. He needs to go on.   
  
Dembe is still there, waiting for Ressler to go. The agent stops dead in his tracks as their gazes meet. There's so much sadness in those dark eyes, visible even from this distance, but to his surprise Ressler can't see any hatred, rage in there. His heart beats faster. Maybe he had expected Dembe to take revenge; shoot Ressler. Maybe that's why he's been standing there so long. Not to say good-bye (to whom? He didn't even know Reddington so well, Hell, he _hated_ that guy, so why would he?), but to get what he deserves. The thought nearly startles him as much as the realisation that there's only pity in Dembe's eyes.   
  
So he picks up his pace and leaves Reddington - for good. He doesn't have the right to be here in the first place; Dembe does. And as he walks quickly back to his car, he can feel Dembe's eyes on his back, all the way until he's passed through the cemetery gates and out of sight. He doesn't turn around. He doesn't call the police or arrest the man himself. He closes his eyes and lets Dembe mourn. Mourn a loss that he's responsible for.   
  
  
Starting the engine, he is headed home again. It's been a long week; a long day even, although nothing has happened apart from the burial. But it's draining. Everything is, really, and Donald just needs a hot shower and a good night's sleep.  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
Sleep comes fast for him that night. The three beers before bed certainly helped.   
  
And Reddington is there; his eyes are shining with curiosity and life, like he's seen it so damn often; he can feel his touch - a soft caress of callous fingers against his cheeks, down his throat, and he shivers. Feels Reddington's body so close to his, not quite touching but near enough to feel the criminal's warmth. Feels his strong hands at his hips, on his back and belly, then up his chest. Then in his hair, pulling, pulling him closer, and now they do touch, two lonely bodies fitting perfectly together like pieces of a puzzle. Ressler has never felt such a warmth in his life - his skin is burning where Reddington's hands follow their invisible trail, and inside of him there's a fire he's never noticed before, slowly rising from his stomach to his chest to his head, not eating away at his flesh like an inferno's angry flames, but gently filling his dead body with new life. It's absolutely divine; he's flying, or maybe falling, diving, lost in infinity. There's nothing but Reddington - Reddington's touch, his closeness, his warmth. Then his breath on Ressler's skin like a breeze on a hot day; and finally his lips on Ressler's lips, chaste like a ghost, but deep and warm and enough for Donald to lose himself in forever. Reddington is the ocean, so wide and beautiful, and Ressler willingly lets himself drown in fervent suffocation.   
  
  
And although he knows it's only a dream, he wakes up breathless.   
  
  
//   
  
  
  
He can't talk about this dream with anyone. Wants to forget it, actually, although the memory of it still feels warm in his chest and grants his head a moment of peace. But it's silly, he knows. Stupid. But also unsettling; he can't believe his own brain would torture him like that, and honestly, he's mostly angry at himself, repeating "what the fuck?" over and over again in his shower, trying to understand what the Hell - and _why_ the Hell - - - Or maybe he should take the bureau's offer and go to a shrink. He's sure it's not normal to have those kind of dreams about the guy you killed; the guy you certainly weren't in love with - found attractive, maybe, but always dismissed those thoughts as unprofessional and childish; never dwelled on them.  
  
He doesn't go, though. It's not like he's having any serious issues, and the shrinks are busy enough as it is, and if he's quite honest with himself, he can live with dreams like that. There are worse secrets to keep from his team than this.   
  
Ressler still doesn't understand it, though. He's killed Reddington. Buried him. So why does he keep haunting the agent? With a sigh he packs his things and goes home. Maybe it was just a one-time-occurrence.  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
The sweet smell of flowers fills his senses: purple hyacinths, azaleas, pink and red camellias, carnations spread out in every colour, white and yellow and red, purple, pink, and in the middle of it all is Reddington, holding a bouquet of withered, grey forget-me-nots. It's as sad a sight as it is beautiful; all the cheerful colours swirling around them like a surge of waves, their smell clouding his mind as Ressler comes closer, stepping over fern and grass to reach for the dead man. "There you are, Donald", Reddington says and his words cut through his lung like a scalpel; never has Red called him 'Donald'; it's always been 'Agent Ressler'. Always impersonal and indifferent. Never with such warmth.  
  
"I've been waiting." _Right_ , Ressler thinks, but he cannot speak. He reaches out to Red, his fingers carefully stroking his cheek; a thumb brushing over thin lips. He comes closer and kisses Reddington, his thoughts swirling in rhythm with the sea of flowers, lulling him in, pulling him deeper, and he isn't afraid of drowning. The bouquet has fallen to the ground, spilling dead flowers everywhere; but they start to bloom again, a faint blue and soft pink against the green grass.  
  
"Look at that", Reddington says, breaking the kiss. His voice is soft, mirroring clouds and gentle blossoms. Ressler follows his gaze to the forget-me-nots. They really _are_ beautiful. And alive, happily dancing in an invisible breeze, rejoicing with new-found life. His chest is getting warm and heavy, and it's the first time in his life he cries for the sheer beauty of something. The beauty of life; never has he treasured it as much as now, his arms around Reddington's hips, clinging to him so the storm of affection won't sweep him away. His tears are hot on his cheeks, emotion bubbling in his chest and he lets it out, half sobbing, half laughing, and Red's lips are on his neck as he's whispering about the divinity of life.   
  
  
  
His cheeks are wet when he awakes, and the world has never seemed duller, devoid of life. He almost doesn't make it out of bed.   
  
  
//  
  
  
  
The flowers are still on his mind when he calls it a day and sends his team home. Reddington's grave comes to his mind again, bare and brown and sad, and he quickly makes a decision. It's probably stupid, but maybe it will calm his mind and let him finally get on with his life.   
  
  
He hasn't planted a flower in many years, and the familiar act brings back memories of himself and his brother in their garden, helping Mom where they can. It's been fun before, and a distraction after his Dad's death. And now he's planting blue forget-me-nots on a man's grave who he barely knew; who he killed.   
  
There's a vase on the headstone; a bunch of white lilies show that Reddington isn't forgotten yet. It was probably Dembe.   
  
  
He looks at his work, cleaning his earthy hands at his trousers, and nods. Maybe now Reddington will leave him be.   
  
  
//  
  
  
And that night, he doesn't dream. Not really, anyway. There are no pictures, no thoughts. He only senses a cold embrace and desperate longing, but he doesn't know if it's his own or someone else's. He can feel massive waves crashing his ribcage from inside, and then he's lost at sea. Dissolved into nothingness where not even the embrace can touch him. He's trembling, and when he turns to look at the clock, half asleep and overcome with fear, it feels like his bed is a raft, out on the silent ocean, right before the storm hits and he is bound to drown.   
  
It's 4am and for the rest of the night he is consumed by a restlessness that makes it impossible for him to find sleep again, always fearing the wave that will swallow him without mercy; tossing and turning in frustration until his alarm goes off.   
  
  
//  
  
  
  
Of course it's Julian who senses first that something is off.   
  
  
They've just finished a case and Ressler has sent everybody home early, leaving him alone in his office, only paperwork for company. He only notices that Julian's in his office when the door closes soundly. He looks up, as tired as back when they were chasing Reddington, only calmer, much calmer.   
  
"So", Julian says as he sits down on the chair on the other side of his desk, "you wanna talk about it?"   
  
Ressler frowns; how much does Gale know? Nothing, he can't, but he's always been too clever for his own good.   
  
"About what?", Ressler asks.   
  
"Whatever's bothering you. I've known you long enough to know that something's wrong with you ever since Brussels. So. What is it?"   
  
"It's nothing", Ressler says. What else? He can't say it's Reddington, can't tell him about the dreams and thoughts and that he could have sworn to have seen him this morning when he was getting coffee. "Really, I'm alright. It's just a busy job, that's all. And besides, you're crap at doing this whole 'caring best friend'-thing."   
  
Julian laughs at that. "Nah, I'm the most caring best friend you'll ever get! So spill it!"   
  
But Ressler just sighs and shakes his head, half-smile tugging at his lips.   
  
"Is it Audrey? I mean, it's not her fault if you ask me, but -"   
  
\- "It's not Audrey", Ressler cuts in, harsher than neccessary. He hasn't thought about her since the night she finally told him 'no'.   
  
Julian raises his hands in defence. "Sorry, man. Then what is it?"  
  
Ressler scoffs. Why can't Gale just shut up and go home like everybody else? "I told you, it's nothing."   
  
But Julian won't go. It's as if he's glued to the chair, his eyes never leaving Donald, taking in every tiny movement, every little detail that betrays him.   
  
"Reddington haunting you?", he asks, and Ressler forces himself not to react, slipping on the unmovable, stonelike mask.   
  
"Why would he?" It's the same question he asks himself every day. _Why would Reddington haunt me like this?_ Maybe Gale has an answer, although he doubts it.  
  
"Well, we've been huntin' him for three years. Nothin' else. Just this job, day and night. I had to get used to gettin' back to normal, too. No shame in that, pal. You miss the hunt. So do I."   
  
  
Ressler sighs. Maybe that's it. Reddington had been the center of his life for three years, had been his raison d'être, and now he is gone. Maybe it's just his brain playing tricks, trying to tell Ressler that he _needs_ Reddington, that he can't live without him. But he can, and he will. He just needs to stop caring. Ignore the dreams. Push the feelings of warmth and divinity back to where they came from. He mustn't let any of this affect him anymore, in no way.   
  
Gale knocks his knuckles on the desk as he stands up. "I'm sure you'll figure it out. And if you wanna talk - I mean, apparently I _am_ crap at this sorta thing, but, y'know, Donnie, honestly? You're worse at it. Anyway, I'm here for ya." He smiles awkwardly as Don nods his _'thank you'_ , then leaves the small room to head home. Ressler sighs once more and asks himself if he can really do it.   
  
  
//   
  
  
  
He sits on his bed, lamp on the nightstand the only source of light. Staring at his naked feet, or the floor beyond, or the vast space beyond, he is fighting a losing battle with his own head. He knows he has to sleep. And he _is_ tired. But truth to be told, he's afraid of the dreams that will come to swallow him - if they were only nightmares, Reddington's dead eyes never leaving him, heavy accusations, bloody hands that pull him down into the earth right next to the criminal: he'd be okay with that. But this - this is like the world has gone insane, is laughing at him, like there's a crack in the universe or whatever, and everything, everyone tells him it's _so good_ that Reddington is finally dead. He's a fucking hero, celebrated for killing a man in cold blood. The media loves him for it, the bureau promoted him for it, his collegues celebrated him deep into the night. And now his own head is telling him that it wasn't a fucking mistake, look, here's a reward for murder _(another dream, another glance at the impossible)_ , and maybe that's punishment enough, knowing what he'll never get _~~(never could have gotten with Reddington anyway)~~_ , or maybe he even thinks himself that Reddington is not worth - what? Mourning? Regret? Beating himself up over?   
  
He lets himself fall back onto the mattress, closing his eyes. So much for _pushing everything Reddington-related away and ignoring it._  
  
Turning off the light, he pulls the blanket over his body and tries to sleep, hoping against hope that the dreams won't come.   
  
  
  
But they do.  
  
  
They're on a sailboat in the middle of a silvery ocean, soft, pink clouds are scattered along the horizon. He can feel Reddington behind him as he's standing at the railing, looking out at the never ending water. Warm hands slide around his hips, and soft lips are leaving countless small kisses at the base of his neck. "Beautiful, isn't it?", Reddington asks against his skin. Ressler humms in agreement. He's feeling safe and warm, like no storm could ever cause their boat to capsize, like there wasn't a wave high enough to pull them into the deep, dark sea, and maybe he's right. Maybe he just needs to stay here, in Reddington's arms, forever.   
  
The rain that follows is gentle and almost warm, shining brilliantly and colourful in the last sunshine the day has to offer. It's almost as if a child had splashed all their watercolours from their brush, mixing with glitter and tears. Donald has never seen something quite as beautiful - it could just as well be raining diamonds. He stares in awe; and Reddington is looking at him, in awe as well, but for entirely different reasons. Ressler's hair is flat against his forehead as he grins, eyes shining brightly; he looks at Reddington, a pool of lava in his stomach, a volcano errupting in his ribcage, and they're kissing again until they're not, until they dance slowly, in a tight embrace, to a bittersweet song that effortlessly leaves Ressler's lips. _Fly me to the moon..._  
  
  
  
He awakes, longing for that bliss, with a melody stuck in his head and dried tears on his cheeks.  
  
  
And he's seriously getting pissed. So before work he stops by his doctor, lying to him about insomnia and the like, and gets a prescription for some fucking sleeping pills. The dreams must stop.   
  
  
During the day, he dives into work, focusing only on their recent case. Everything else he pushes aside; he doesn't need it. He almost manages, if there wasn't that stupid song ghosting through his mind, poisoning him with memories of never felt bliss.   
  
  
So when he returns home, tired and empty, he gets ready for bed. Looking at the pills in his hand, he takes two, swallowing (his doctor's orders _"no more than one, don't drink any alcohol, you need to get at least seven hours of sleep, it's possible you're not fully alert the next day until a few hours after waking up, so mind that, and only take it if you really need it"_ only a faint noise in the back of his head). Switching off the lamp, he lays down, awaiting blissful, dreamless, undisturbed sleep.   
  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
  
It's so quiet, weak. He almost doesn't hear it. Then again, who knows how long the alarm has already rung before Ressler's conscience takes notice of it.   
  
He turns, his head cloudy and groggy, a bit like he's drunk, just less fuzzy. Less funny, too. His eyes finally open, and he mutters a worn out "fuck..." into the pillow when his gaze falls upon the numbers on the digital clock. He really needs to get going. He's not late yet, but he definitely doesn't have the time for his morning jog today. So he runs his hands over his face, willing his brain to wake up, before forcing his heavy limbs over the edge of the bed, and over into the bathroom. He showers cold today.   
  
When he looks into the mirror a few minutes later, towel around his waist, water trickling down his back, he really does look like shit. Maybe he should have listened to the doc and not taken two pills. Well, not maybe. Most definitely. But he can't change it now.   
  
At least the dreams stayed away. Somewhere in his chest there's an aching, but like so many things these days he ignores it. It's better that way, he knows. And if this is the price - heavy bags under his eyes, mushy head, tired feet - then he damn well must learn how to handle those consequences. It'll be worth it. It will.   
  
When he arrives at work, he feels only marginally better. He's had a large coffee with a double espresso shot on his way, and he can feel the caffeine slowly taking effect. It's not enough to bring him through the day, but according to the leaflet the influence of the pills should wear off in a matter of hours. And in the meantime, he's just going to occupy the coffee machine.   
  
  
And just as he's taking his first sip, Julian is at his side again.   
  
"Wow, and I thought you looked like shit _yesterday_! What happened with you tonight?" He's laughing, but underneath the humour, Ressler can see the concern in his friend's eyes.  
  
"Just didn't sleep well", Ressler answers. He can see that Gale isn't convinced, and knowing him, the agent won't let it go before he has a halfway honest answer. On the job, Ressler more than appreciates that trait; privately, it can be frustrating at times.   
  
Now, there's the assuming half-grin that tells Ressler that what Gale thinks is completely wrong.   
  
"Oh. God, no, I -", Ressler stammers. He hasn't even slept with anyone since - God, it's been so long. But on the other hand, he didn't feel the need to. Didn't think about it, except - God, no, don't go there.   
  
And Gale is laughing again, half because Donald is blushing (which is a surprisingly sweet sight), and half because it feels good to see the mask slip and have Don react like a normal human being.   
  
"Ah, c'mon Donnie, no need to be ashamed! So, who was it? A Russian stripper? One of the sweet girls on K Street? Or...", he leans in closer, voice dropping to a whisper, "did ya get a hot, lonely guy who was just waiting for you in some low light bar?" His grin is maddening, and Ressler can't help but chuckle. "Why do you assume I'd have to pay for sex?" Maybe it's better to have Julian think he's right with his thesis, so he plays along.   
  
"I don't think you do, but that's part of the fun, isn't it? The thrill of takin' a girl from the street in, knowing full well it's not entirely legal, fuckin' her on yer backseat on some abandoned parkinglot?" He's laughing again, low and dirty, and Ressler can definitely see the thrill. Doesn't mean he's gonna try it, anyway.   
  
"You're mad. Now let's get to work before I'll tell your boss."  
  
  
  
And that's it for the day. Julian asks him later if he wants to join him for a drink, but Ressler declines.   
  
  
That night when he goes to bed, he takes only one pill. _That'll do_ , he hopes.   
  
  
//  
  
  
  
It's all a mess, thoughts and pictures and sensations whirling together in merciless chaos; there's no peace here and he can't find a grip. Somewhere there's a scream and he wants to help but he doesn't know which way to go through the storm of impressions and emotions that's surging down on him like a tsunami. He can feel cold hands on his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he only realizes it's Julian when there are two cold lips at his ears, whispering. _"You'd like to fuck a helpless girl on yer backseat, wouldn't you?"_ His breath is just a sensation and he can't do a thing. Dark swirls of colour wind around his head and he's getting dizzy, and Julian is laughing. _"Or would you rather Reddington fucks you? In some expensive, luxurious hotel room with ocean view? Because that's exactly what I think. 'N it's disgusting, Donnie."_ His words are like knives, like daggers and swords or - like gunshots, straight through his torso, and he's laying on the floor of a train station in Brussels, bleeding, and his dead eyes look up at the shooter. He stares into his own face, terror gripping his body, shaking it, and it all goes black.   
  
The rest of the night is fuzzy. It's as if his body - or the pills - are fighting the dreams, but slowly losing.   
  
And the next morning, he's even more exhausted than the day before. Trying to move his body, failing, he groans. He doesn't even have the energy to switch off the alarm. But he has to. He can't miss work. Can't let those dreams dictate his life. So he pulls himself together, gathering every bit of self dicipline he has, and pushes his body up and out of bed. It's a small victory, but a victory nontheless.   
  
On his way to the bathroom, he passes the kitchen. There's not much there; a few bottles of alcohol, some bread, apples, water, milk. He stares at the vodka bottle. Just a sip wouldn't hurt, right? It sure as Hell would get his blood pressure going. But he shakes his head and drags himself into the shower. He's not fallen that deep yet.   
  
  
  
  
  
He's on his way to a doctor (another one, now) when he calls Gale that he might be late. He can almost hear Julian's frown over the phone but is glad that he doesn't comment.  
  
At the doctor's, he's lying himself through the appointment yet again, asking himself when he'd become like this. He's lying about the sleeping pills _("In your file it says you've been prescribed Ambien just two days ago?" - "Yeah, I thought if I slept better, I wouldn't be so tired in the morning. Dunno, didn't work.")_ , blocking every question that suggests long term therapies _("I'd like to observe this a little longer -" - "That won't be neccessary, Doctor, just -" - "If this is connected to some deeply rooted mental illness, Depression perhaps or -" - "It's not, I assure you -")_ and in the end gets a prescription for Provigil. As soon as he has the medication, he takes two pills and swallows them down.   
  
And when he arrives at the bureau, he feels much fitter. A little dizzy, but he puts it on his body that has to get accustomed to the chemicals first. He apologizes to his team, asks for updates, and dives straight into work. He's almost forgotten about last night's dream, and it only comes back to him when Julian touches his shoulders (although his hands are much warmer now); he needs a second to shove the pictures away (blood, backseats, his own eyes), and Gale looks at him with worry and suspicion and dark curiosity, but he doesn't ask.   
  
  
And Donald can almost live like this, he thinks.   
  
  
  
Until it's a week later and the half-dreams return. Faded images of loose earth and blood and coffee on the stone floor; Ressler is on his knees, begging, howling, and Reddington is the only one who can give him salvation - a piece of sky, of divinity. But he's standing back, watching as Julian raises his gun to point at Reddington's chest, and there's nothing either man can do. And as Ressler yelps and cries like a beaten dog, a single shot rings out and Red's lifeless body slumps to the ground. In that moment, he cannot know what it's like to kill a Saint, but he knows what mourning the Devil feels like.

Julian leans down and takes Ressler's head in his hands, ignoring the violent trembling, swiping away the tears and snot and saliva with his thumbs. _"It's over, Donnie. It's finally over."_ And he leans in and kisses Ressler, sloppy and wet, until Donald is out of breath, suffocating under Julian's gentle touch.  
  
  
So he beginns to take two sleeping pills; doubles the Provigil. He knows he must be ruining his body, or brain, or whatever, but it's also the only way of getting through this that he knows.   
  
  
Another week later, and he's in the field with Julian. The headache is nothing new by now, but it's not too bad so he doesn't mind it. What he does mind is the occasional fit of lightheadedness; it doesn't last long, a few seconds perhaps, but it's enough to have Donald on edge in grim anticipation. He needs to be ready to overplay it.   
  
Their suspect's name is Jon Travis. He doesn't open the door when Ressler rings the door bell, then knocks. But he's home. They heard his voice just before, shouting on the phone. So Ressler exchanges a quick glance with Gale, then kicks down the door, weapons drawn, and they make their way through the house. The kitchen and living room are clean, so are the bath and the bedroom. Gale nods at another door; when they open it, cold stairs lead into the basement. It's the moment the adrenaline does most of the work - there's no time for anxiety, no time to hesitate. He needs to be fully alert.   
  
  
Ressler leads the way down the stairs, and as soon as they step into the small basement room, they see Travis, gun shakily pointed at the two agents, only a few feet away from them.   
  
"Take the weapon down!", Ressler shouts, followed by a "Take it _down!_ " from Gale. Travis doesn't. Of course he doesn't; will guys like him ever make it easy for the FBI?   
  
"Not gonna happen!", Travis says, pointing the gun at Gale. "Now get out of my house!"   
  
"Now, _that's_ not going to happen", Ressler says, and Travis swings his gun around, now pointing at Donald. "You shoot me, my partner here's gonna shoot _you_. You're not gonna make it out of here. So put down the gun, Travis."   
  
But he doesn't comply. Ressler can see the weapon shaking in the young man's hand; he's hesitating. There's no way out for him. Impatience suddenly takes ahold of Ressler. "Oh, come on!", he sighs. His vision is getting a little blurry - it's not so bad, though, and he holsters his gun, feeling Gale tensing next to him. He takes a few steps, arms outstreched, says, "You don't have a chance either way", and as he grabs for the gun in Travis' hand, he suddenly feels agonizing pain shooting through his right shoulder, his vision going from blurry to black, as he hears two more shots and Gale's voice. He barely feels his body hit the ground.   
  
  
  
//   
  
  
  
  
He awakes feeling equally groggy as every morning. Tired from black, deep sleep, a little lightheaded, desoriented. Now even more as he's not in his bed, at home, but - it's all white and far too bright, and he presses his eyes shut against the light that fills the room like air. Someone groans - it's probably him, but his senses are all numb - and he just wants to wake up. _Where's the damn Provigil?_ , is the first coherent thought that enters his foggy brain. He can hear his body screaming for the drug, for the stimulating effect, the energy and focus.   
  
Somewhere he can feel a light touch (his face? His arm?) and a far-away voice whispers incomprehensible things to him. It sounds good and soothing, so Ressler lets himself relax, eyes still closed - opening them would be far too exhausting -, and he drifts back into nothingness.   
  
  
  
//   
  
  
  
When he wakes up again, the touch and the voice are gone. The craving isn't. He tries opening his eyes and it's easier now, the room darker than before and his head still foggy, but more bearable this time. He looks around. There's an empty chair next to his bed. The curtains of the large windows are drawn, and it's not yet night; there's still some sunlight in the sky. An ugly expressionist painting hangs on the wall opposite him.  
He tries to sit up. He yelps at the burst of pain that shoots through his shoulder into his arm and chest; he looks down and sees neat bandages around his shoulder.   
  
"What the...?", he mutters, slowly sinking back into the pillows, mindful not to move too harshly again.   
  
That's when the door opens and Julian enters, steaming coffee in hand, sunglasses on even in the dim light of the room.   
  
"Donnie!", he says, beaming, "You're awake! Good."   
  
He lets himself fall into the chair next to the bed, patting Ressler's hand in the process.   
  
"You ever pull a stunt like that again and you can get yourself a new partner, 'cause I almost got a heart attack." Julian is grinning as he's speaking, but underneath, Donald can hear the worry.   
  
"What stunt? What - what happened?", he asks, voice hoarse, his head fighting the tiredness that lays over him like a blanket. Julian frowns, grin vanishing off his face, then takes off his sunglasses and puts them in the pockets of his leather jacket. He reaches for the glass of water that stands ready on the nightstand, and slipping over onto the edge of the bed, holds it so Donald can drink a few sips. When he gets the signal that it's enough, he sets the glass down again, but doesn't get back into the chair.   
  
He looks at Donald long and hard, figuring out whether he is being serious or shitting him.   
  
"You don't remember what happened?", he asks, his gaze never leaving Donald.   
  
"No", Don answers, thinking hard. "There was that suspect... Jon Travis", Ressler beginns to recollect, "we went to his house. He - he didn't open so I kicked down the door."   
  
"Yeah", Gale says, "and then?"   
  
Ressler thinks, tries to find _some_ memory, but there's nothing, just an endless sea of darkness. He shakes his head in defeat. "Then it's all black", he says. Gale's eyes are hard on him, full of worry and emotion, and he runs a hand over his mouth and chin. "Shit, man", he says finally.   
  
"Why, what happened?"   
  
"Well", Gale starts, "you were shot. And pretty stupidly, for the record." He forces a laugh that quickly dies in his throat. "You could've been dead." There are tears in Gale's eyes as his smile fades yet again, and sometimes Ressler forgets that this man, this tough, dark macho, is probably more sensitive than anyone he's ever met. And right now it's sweet, really, because it means that someone genuinely cares.   
  
He reaches out for Julian and takes his hand. Squeezes.   
  
"Well, doc's said they found Zolpidem and Modafinil in your blood. Which - which don't usually belong there. I mean, that - tha' would probably explain the memory loss, since you didn't fall on your head or anythin', but... still. I, I gotta ask. Are you takin' anything?"   
  
  
And Ressler just stares at him. Swallows. And really craves a Provigil or two or four. He needs to be able to focus and right now, he can't. His silence must be enough of an answer for Julian; he sighs, burying his head in the hand that doesn't still squeeze Ressler's. "Jesus...", he mutters. "Why -", he looks up again and Ressler can't stand his gaze, glistening with tears and despair and disappointment, "why? You coulda talked to me, said something. Jesus, Donnie, you're..." Gale shakes his head. "Fuck, man. I should've seen it. You've been acting weird for weeks and here I am, the great fuckin' Special Agent, not noticing a goddamn thing! Shit, Donnie, I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry!"  
  
But Ressler just sighs. "Stop it, Julian. You've seen it. You've asked. Cared. But you know my proud ass, so, it's my fault, really. I know I could have trusted you. _Should_ have. But I guess I - I don't know." He looks at Julian again, shaking his head. "Sorry. I was --"  
  
And he wants to tell him, about Reddington and the dreams and all the strange sensations of warmth and bliss but - let's face it, Gale would either laugh at him or send him to a shrink. Also, he really wants to keep him as a friend.   
  
"'S alright, I guess", Julian drawls. "Just promise me you'll stop this shit before there's even more damage. I mean, being shot and not remembering? That's pretty fucked up, man." His grin is slipping away, revealing fear and worry. "So... promise me, please."   
  
And Ressler wants to, he really does, but his head also screams for those fucking drugs; the craving runs through his veins into every last part of his body, making it tingle with sensation and need, and he just wants to have a few clear thoughts again. He fears he may never think clearly again if he doesn't get a pill or two or four, as soon as possible. But he looks up and tries to nod his 'yes'. But - how would he continue? Like before? With those dreams of sweet torture, mocking him night after night, driving him into insanity with impossible yearnings? - What, _yearnings!_ Before Reddington's death - and thus, the dreams - he didn't have a single thought about the criminal in that direction. Well, maybe that one time in Chicago, the first time he'd seen Reddington eye to eye _(beautiful eyes)_ , and he'd smiled in that smug but charming way _(beautiful smile)_ , and he was dizzy with alcohol as his hands wandered down his own body that night in his hotel room, thinking about the criminal for a moment or two or maybe longer. But that's it. A drunk fantasy, a quick _'What If...?'_ , nothing more.  
  
  
"Right. You wanna tell me what's wrong?"  
  
"I'm tired", he says. It's the truth, more or less, and it will let him put off the conversation for a while longer. "You go home and get some rest, too. You look like Hell."   
  
And there it is again, Gale's laugh. "Thanks, Donnie, right back at you."   
  
Julian squeezes Ressler's hand a last time, then gets his cup of coffee (that must be lukewarm by now), and whispers a soft "Good night" into Donald's hair as he's planting a sweet kiss on his head. And then he's gone.   
  
The silence in the room is almost deafening, and there's only one thing he knows for certain: he won't be able to sleep.   
  
  
He tries anyway. Tries to relax as much as he can, eyes closed, attempting not to think about anything at all. But to no avail. Three times some nurse comes in, checking on him, and he pretends to be asleep. Works so far. But he's getting giddy and frustrated, and actually _wants_ to sleep. Hell, he's even tired! But sleep won't come.   
  
So when the nurse enters his room the fourth time, he asks her for something to let him sleep. She looks at him with worry in her eyes, then tells him she'd be right back.   
  
_Great_ , he thinks, _now I can't even fall asleep without these fucking things._  
  
It's logical, actually, but maybe he's tried to convince himself so far that he isn't addicted in any kind or form. He needs the pills to keep the dreams away. He doesn't need them to - live, or something.   
  
The nurse comes back with a syringe and inserts the contents into his IV. Slowly, he can feel how his body relaxes, sinking against the pillows, into the mattress, awaiting holy sleep.   
  
And it comes without any dreams, as warm arms wind themselves around him, hot air that feels far more real than anything that's happened in the last couple of weeks. So despite his strict self-restraint, his last thoughts before finally drifting off are of Reddington.  
  
  
  
//  
  
  
It's all so fuzzy, lights swirling around his head, a warm summer mist numbing his mind in all the best ways. He can't move, doesn't want to, anyway. The bed is like a heap of flowers, cradling him, and there are soft lips ghosting over his forehead; he can smell Reddington's cologne (the lonely scent of hyacinths) and feels safer than he ever has. Nothing can happen to him here, in this fog of warmth and numbness and security. The lips are wandering lower, over his cheeks and nose to his own lips, and Ressler tastes earth _(loose earth)_ and the ocean. It feels like home. Like finally arriving after a long and tiring journey, and he just wants to rest.   
  
  
//  
  
  
  
He needs to get back to his feet. His body is tingling with tension, and nervously his hand twitches as he kicks aside the blanket. He has to do something. Can't lay here, or he'll go insane. If he doesn't burn up first, of course. So with a shaky movement of his hand, he quickly pulls out the IV tubes and pulls his legs over the edge of the bed. His right shoulder where the gun shot wound is stings a little, but he doesn't mind it much. He's anxious to move, shivering at the thought of staying here for another night.   
  
What had happened earlier (last night? last week? an hour ago?) with Reddington - he tries not to think about it _(failing)_ but can't help but wonder if it was a dream or a hallucination. It had felt real in the moment, but now, afterwards, it's just the shadow of a memory, blurring away into nothingness, leaving only wonder and yearning.   
  
Standing on wobbly knees, he regrets standing up for a minute when his head starts spinning again, nausea ripping through his body. But then again, nervousness is flooding his veins and he needs to get going - _now!_ \- so he sets one foot in front of the other, heart pounding against his ribcage, skin itching with want.   
  
"That's it", Reddington whispers, "you're doing great, Donald."   
  
Yeah. Yeah, he is, he knows, as he reaches the door. His face feels wet, but he can't say if he's sweating or crying. It doesn't matter anyway, as long as he can just leave, loathing and longing furiously lashing through his body, fuelled by the criminal's voice, like a storm trapped inside of him and his body can't escape it.   
  
  
He stumbles out onto the corridor, slowly looking left and right, trying to orientate himself. To no avail. It all looks the same, bright white walls and doors and signs. No, it's not the same - to his left, there's a dark figure coming up. The dizzyness is back; he feels like vomiting; hates everything about this. The anxiety, the _need_ , the dark spots before his eyes. Maybe he should go back to sleep - back to blissful oblivion, feeling and seeing nothing. He'd really like that. If he only could - just lay down and be gone, and his hand twiches as his body urges him to _take a pill or two, you need it, please!_ and he almost lets out a sob, realising how far gone he is; how much he yearns for nothing at all.   
  
  
  
And it's all Reddington's fault.   
  
  
  
A light touch at his good shoulder yanks him back into reality. It's Julian (who else would visit him, anyway? and how sad is that!) who looks at him with worried eyes, even visible through his sunglasses.   
  
"Hey, what are you doin' out here?", he asks, softer than he's ever heard him, "You should be resting, Don."   
  
But Donald just looks up, face a miserable grimace. "Take me home", is all he says. He can't stay here. Can't stay anywhere, probably, because Reddington will follow him, but right here, right now, the criminal's presence is overwhelming.   
  
And Ressler knows that Julian would be fighting right now - _you're such a stubborn bastard, you better stay here for a while longer or I'll make ya_ \- but he must be looking lousy enough, so Gale simply sighs, "Alright, c'mere. I'll talk to the doc and see what I can do." Ressler nods and lets Gale lead him back into the room. And then he goes, leaving Don sitting on the bed alone, waiting. He's shivering and there are a million ants in his legs and stomach, making him restless and sick. "Fuck", he mutters to himself, repeating it all over again to ignore the soft breeze on his back that feels like a hand gently caressing him, silent whispers of "You'll get through it, Donald" fading in his ears.   
  
  
Julian comes back with a doctor, both looking concerned as they enter the room.   
  
  
"Please", Ressler starts, prepared to beg if he has to. He doesn't. The doctor lets him go after checking his temperature, the injury and asking a few questions, and Gale has to promise him about five times that he will take really good care of the other agent.   
  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
"You know you're a stubborn bastard, right?", Gale asks when they've made it to Ressler's apartment.   
  
"Yeah, sorry 'bout that", he answers. He feels better already; the nervousness is still there, making his limbs tingle, but at least he can breathe again.   
  
Gale laughs and shakes his head. "Whatever makes you feel better."   
  
  
Ressler sits on the couch, running his hands over his face. The painkillers are working their magic, and he's tired. But he knows he can't take the sleeping pills again. He promised Julian. And he's not so stupid as to think they don't effect him at all - Hell, he knows they do. But on the other hand he also knows that he won't be able to sleep without them. That the need won't stop. That what happened in the hospital today were symptoms of withdrawal. And on the long run, he can't live like that, can't do his job like that. But what other options does he have?   
  
"So... you up for dinner?", Julian asks. He's taken off his sunglasses now, leaning in the doorframe, two watchful eyes on his partner.   
  
"Not really", Ressler answers. He's not hungry. Just - tired.   
  
"C'mon, Donnie, you need to eat somethin'. I promised the doc."   
  
Ressler sighs. He knows arguing would be in vain. "Fine. Just don't complain if I can't get anything down."   
  
And Julian beams - Ressler almost thinks that's worth it. "Sweet. What're you in the mood for? Chinese? Pizza?"   
  
"Whatever", Ressler shrugs. He almost doesn't feel the wound right now; his whole body is numb from the painkillers. He lets his head fall back against the cushions, closing his eyes. There's a faraway itching behind his eyelids.   
  
Then he can hear Julian's voice, talking on the phone. He doesn't make out the words.   
  
And before he knows it, he can feel the other agent sitting down next to him, a careful hand on Ressler's arm. With difficulty, Ressler opens his eyes.   
  
"You wanna talk now?", Julian asks, and Donald can only shake his head. He needs to figure things out himself, first. Get out of this hole. Then he can start to think about how to explain it to Gale; but that's still a long way to go.   
  
"Fine. Just don't let it destroy you.“  
  
Ressler nods. "Thanks", he says after a few moments of silence, "y'know, for putting up with me."  
  
And Gale smiles _(it's nothing like Reddington's smile; far more honest and caring, but – he mustn't think about that). "_ Anything for you, partner. You've helped me through a few rough patches, too, and I'm – I'm just thankful for that." Ressler smiles; yeah, they've seen some pretty dark times together, and Julian doesn't exactly deal with the hardships of life the way Donald does. "And I really want you to know that you can count on me, Donnie. Always, yeah?"  
  
A wave of emotion washes over Ressler, relief and gladness as much as anxiety. He doesn't really know where to go from here, but he has a feeling he's gonna figure it all out, eventually. But until then, he needs to get his shit together. Get clean; find sleep; forget Reddington. Somehow he has a feeling the latter will be the hardest – harder than any withdrawal could possibly be.  
  
It's impossible to speak, so Ressler just nods.   
  
  
It's a little awkward at first, silently waiting for their dinner to arrive, but if there's one thing Julian is truly good at aside from his job, it's talking. And even though Ressler is in no mood or condition to respond properly (his mind is too foggy to even catch everything Gale says, and that won't change if he doesn't take those stupid pills again - which he won't, by the way, he's made up his mind about that, really, he has, it's just _damn hard)_ , he listens with half an ear, and even has to crack a smile here and there. This continues throughout dinner (and Ressler is amazed by how well Gale can still articulate with his mouth full of pizza); Ressler barely eats two slices, and only under Gale's heavy (and slightly irritating) encouragement.   
  
"One more bite and I'll throw it right back up", he says. His stomach is already twisting, breath heavy, and he needs to swallow a few times to keep the bile down.   
  
"Alright", Julian says, his own pizza almost finished, "you need any help with that bandage later? I can be a great nurse!"   
  
"I'll manage", Ressler says. If there's a flash of disappointment in Julian's eyes, he chooses to ignore it; it's not like he hasn't got enough weight on his shoulders as it is. Swaying slightly, he stands up, black spots dancing before his eyes from the sudden movement, and sure enough, Gale is at his side in a second, laughing, "woah, woah, woah! Easy, pal!", laying a gentle arm around Ressler's waist, steadying him.   
  
"I said I'll manage, Julian!", he bites out, harsher than intended, irritation suddenly overcoming him, but he really needs his peace right now. So he unwinds himself from Julian's arm _(missing the touch, any touch)_ and heads for the bathroom. But when he realizes that Julian doesn't argue, doesn't fight back as he'd normally do, he stops in the doorframe, his back to his partner, and takes a deep breath. He doesn't need to look back to see the hurt in Julian's eyes; he knows it's there. And he's to blame. Again. It's like whatever he's doing, he's doomed to fuck it up, ever since - since Brussels. Like Reddington (and there he's found his way into Ressler's thoughts _again)_ has cursed him with his dying breath; whether he deserves it or not, he doesn't know, but hurting others in the process - and Gale just wants to help -, he can't forgive that, neither himself nor Reddington. 

  
"Shit, Julian, look, I'm sorry. I - I think I just need to be alone for a while. Figure things out." He takes another breath. It helps a little, keeping the food in.   
  
"Like gettin' clean? Yeah, you should try that", Julian says, and yes, the hurt is there in his voice, lashing out, "and then maybe you decide to talk to me about what's going on in that silly head of yours before something worse happens."   
  
Ressler is still for a moment. Of course, Julian is right. "I don't know", he says honestly. "I don't know if I can do that."   
  
Julian scoffs at that, a humourless laugh slipping out of his throat. "Yeah, great. You know, the dead are more talkative than you are."   
  
And as if to confirm that statement, Ressler stays silent. He can't fight. Not now. Not after all the damage he's already done.   
  
"Well, tell me when you've... figured things out." And with that, he grabs his leather jacket from the back of a chair, puts it on along with his sunglasses, and makes for the door.   
  
"Wait!", Ressler calls out. There's a short moment of silence when Gale stands, looking over his shoulder, patiently waiting. "Thank you. I mean it", Ressler says, calmer, and the sunglasses are doing their job of hiding Gale's eyes and the soft emotion behind them. Julian looks at him for a couple of seconds, probably evaluating his next move. Then he simply nods and tries to hide the lopsided smile. "As I said, Donnie, anything for you. Call me if you need anything."   
  
Ressler swallows, nodding. Maybe he hasn't fucked it all up yet. He hears the door closing more than he sees Julian leave, and with a sigh he enters the bathroom. There they are, the sleeping pills, the small bottle readily, innocently standing on the sink. He looks at them - "fuck it" - and before he can change his mind he takes them and swiftly empties the rest of the bottle into the toilet. There they swim, just the few of them left, looking up at Ressler, mocking him with their sheer existence. He flushes them down, his mind screaming, mourning the loss, his stomach twisting in painful anxiety.  
  
He stands back, taking a deep breath and then another, and another and another until he's fairly sure he won't throw up.   
  
  
  
//   
  
  
  
It's later that night, and he's lying in bed, fresh bandage over his wound, closing his eyes in an attempt to sleep. Deep down he knows he can't, not without the pills, but - they're gone. _(Just like Reddington.)  
  
_ He turns over. He can see it all before his eyes, every mistake of the last couple of weeks. The first one's all blood and coffee and dead eyes, and it all goes downhill from there. The pills, the building addiction, the stimulants, the shot - Gale's worried eyes on him, his hands on his skin, a gently whispered "good night", soft lips on his hair - and then Reddington's presence, his airy touch and feathered kisses, strong arms holding him tight all through the night, silent declarations of love and eternity, covered in an abundance of flowers, every word a gospel.  
  
He turns over. Can't think about that. And he can't keep his eyes closed - when he does, the thoughts won't stop coming but he can't grasp them, laying there defeated, having to accept the flood of information in his brain that he doesn't understand; only Reddington stands out, of course, false memories of intimacy and warmth that he may never recover from.   
  
So he turns over and over and over for hours, growing more irritated by the minute. It can't be too hard, falling asleep - and yet his body refuses to, mind racing, agitating him, restless anxiety making his limbs crawl.   
  
  
It's 4am when he finally gets up. He gets dressed, goes into the kitchen.   
  
"To Hell with it...", he mutters, because right now, nothing matters. He takes the half-empty bottle of whiskey, and then a large gulp out of it. It burns, but in the best ways, reminding him of reality and that he's here, in his apartment, and not six feet under with Reddington.   
  
Reddington.   
  
_Reddington._  
  
The name is like a mantra in his head, repeating over and over, every loop, Hell, every _letter_ , driving him closer to the edge. Whatever happenes when he falls, he doesn't know, nor care. He drinks.   
  
_Reddington. Reddington. Reddington. Reddington._  
  
It's all there is. All that's left, all that he's become.   
  
_Reddington.  
  
_ Not even a reminder anymore, Hell, he _knows_ that he - killed him - murdered him - shot him - is to blame for his death, how could he ever forget? But it's enough, he tells himself, drinking more, and he knows it's probably a bad idea what with the painkillers, but if the alcohol helps him to sleep - or to forget - then he has no problem drinking himself into oblivion. Just as a short-term solution. _(Like the sleeping pills_ , his head chimes in, _like the fucking sleeping pills - you wanna be an alcoholic? Go ahead, drink up, see if you'll feel better, you stupid idiot!)  
  
_ But Reddington - _Reddington_ \- is there again, shaking his head as he's delicately nipping on his overpriced red wine, and he can't help but drink out of frustration and spite now, watching the world go blurrier and faster with each large gulp. And he feels incredibly pathetic, having slipped onto his kitchen floor, back to the counter, bottle at his lips _(it's so much colder than Reddington's skin and he's filled with loss and rage, because - Reddington, Reddington - Reddington - there's the smell of his cologne again and the breath on his skin and the goosebumps that automatically crawl up his arms and back)_ and it's all Reddington's fault _(Reddington, just Reddington)_ \- every single bad thing that's happened - oh God, yes, it all comes down to Reddington _(Reddington)_. And he doesn't care! Shouldn't, anyway! It's _over_ , Reddington _(Re -_ shut up!) is _dead_ , and he wants it back, wants it all back, his life, his tears, his peace!   
  
Sharp pain flashes through his skull as he hits his head against the counter, only adding to the sea of rage he's dripping in, and he stands up - shaking and wobbly and all but graceful - gripping the counter for balance; he takes a look at the whiskey bottle. It's almost empty. Not caring to screw the cap back on, he grabs the bottle of vodka. If he's getting drunk then he can sure as Hell do it properly.   
  
Staggering out of the kitchen, he grabs his coat, hoping his keys are inside one of the pockets, and leaves the apartment, bottle in hand.   
  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
  


The way to the cemetery isn't as long as he'd thought, and the alcohol in his blood is warming him against the cold, searing wind. He could be in bed right now, blissfully sleeping - not stumbling through the night, angry and drunk and broken -, could be completely fine instead of shot and on the edge of withdrawal and dipping his toes in the deep waters of alcoholism - if it wasn't for Reddington - _Reddington, Reddington, Reddington, Reddingt--- the name alone makes his blood boil and his ribcage burst with fury to the point where he can barely contain himself any longer.  
  
_ The last straw is Redding- - _his grave_ , dark and sad and little like he deserves, laying still before him like nothing is wrong with the whole fucking world, like it really is a place to rest, to rest forever, in peace, in blissful ignorance of the shit and misery he's left behind, not caring that there are people left suffering _(without any fucking reason, for nothing and nothing at all).  
  
_ It's overwhelming, the injustice and indifference of it all, and his heart is racing as he's kicking his foot through the forget-me-nots, through the loose, loose earth, slinging them into the air, off the grave - "Fuck you!", he screams, and kicks again, rage leading his body, and it feels liberating, kinda, so he does it again and again.   
  
"What do you want?!", he screams at the silent headstone, only aggrevating him further when there's no answer _(and why does he even expect one?)_ , taking the vase of lilies _(fresh lilies, white and beautiful)_ and throwing it to the ground. He can feel disappointment that isn't his own, and he stomps on the flowers, crying, "What the fuck do you want?! You're _dead!_ Dead! Why can't you just leave me alone, you fucking -"  
  
But he never gets the word out. He collapses, landing on the soft, loose earth _( - - - - )_ , breathing hard through swallowed back tears and exhaustion, and the overwhelming sensation of a warm hand on his cheek, attempting to give him some kind of comfort. "Just let me be", he sobs, kissing the dead, unreal palm with venom on his lips.   
  
He doesn't know how long he lays there, apathy gripping his soul and dragging him with it into a bottomless sea of emptiness. His only company is the bottle of vodka.   
  
And when he gets up, legs and lips numb, dried tears on his cheeks, his clothes dirty and the bottle half empty, it's just getting light. He takes another swig, fighting the urge to vomit, and makes for home.   
  
There are not too many people on the streets yet, fortunately, and the few he encounters either ignore him _(just a normal day in the capital)_ , or look down on him in disgust. His hammered mind doesn't care in the least as he's stumbling down the street. He does vomit once, right on the sidewalk, but he barely notices. He just wants to get home now, maneuvering through familiar streets, now obscured by his blurry vision and the swaying of the world, up and down and around, a merry-go-round out of control and he's hanging on to it, unable to get off.   
  
He's finally home. Everything is so distant - the grave, the Before The Alcohol, Gale - it happened a decade ago. He's just now, and that's not so bad if it wasn't for the spinning and the taste of vomit in his mouth.  
  
He doesn't change or take off his clothing, just falls into his bed and doesn't even have the time (or mental capacity) to be surprised that he's asleep almost immediately.   
  
  
// 

  
He wakes up in a haze of pain, numbly pulling at his shoulder and throbbing in his head, and a ball of cotton in his mouth. He turns over, willing it to go away, to go back to sleep, and, of course, failing.   
  
The bed is cozy and warm, the blanket embracing him like a lover's arms, and he can feel Reddington there behind him, gently stroking up and down his back, watching him with a content smile; waiting patiently for him to wake up fully. It takes a few minutes until Ressler can bring himself to turn onto his back, and when he looks to his right where he knows Reddington is sitting, there's nothing but still air. He sighs, trying to ignore the turmoil in his stomach and the heaviness that pulls at his eyelids.   
  
Slipping out of bed, he makes for the bathroom, still swaying slightly.   
  
"You made quite the mess last night", Reddington's voice chimes in.   
  
"I know", he bites out, and how absurd and sad is this? Now he's even answering the criminal. The _dead_ criminal. Who isn't here. Never was, never will be. The thought just makes him feel sicker than before, and he's glad he's reached the bathroom as his stomach twists and he makes it to the toilet just in time as he throws up. And again, until his stomach is completely empty and he can let himself sink onto the floor. Last night was a mistake, he thinks, another one of so many. It doesn't even matter anymore: what's one more small mistake in this big sea of missteps and errors he's created?   
  
Getting up, he flushes the toilet and brushes his teeth. It's unusually trying, moving his hand back and forth without throwing up gall. But he manages, just as he manages to strip down with only getting a little dizzy, and the shower is like Heaven and Paradise in one. And the regret and guilt flush over him like the water over his body. He destroyed Reddington's grave yesterday. The memories of it are a little hazy, but if he believed it has just been a dream, the dirt that washes away from his hands is proof enough of it. 

  
So when he's done, bandages changed, clothes in the washing machine, painkillers down his throat, feeling fresher already, he leaves to buy some new flowers and a vase. Try to make up for his mistakes.   
  
  
//   
  
  
  
They don't have white lilies at the small flower shop he goes to, so he buys purple hyacinths (he's drawn to them but doesn't quite know why).   
  
  
//  
  
  
  
He's standing in front of the grave once again, looking at the mess he's made. There's earth everywhere _(it's not his fault the earth is so loose and just - scatters everywhere)_ along the shards of the vase and the trampled white lilies and forget-me-nots. It's not a pretty sight, seeing the grave so disarranged, the result of drunk rage and frustrated passion.   
  
So he does his best to re-arrange it; picks up the shards, throwing them into the nearest bin, planting the forget-me-nots as they were before, putting the hyacinths into the new vase he brought. It looks good, he thinks, and he can feel Reddington's nod and his whispered "Thank you, Donald".   
  
He stands there for a while longer. "Sorry 'bout that", he says after long minutes of silence. As if Reddington can really hear him.   
  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a figure approaching, and he turns towards it. He'd expected Dembe, or perhaps even Julian, but it's a young, brunette woman in a black coat, hands buried deep into her pockets, looking unsure whether to come nearer or not. When she catches him look at her, she smiles a little, coming closer, standing next to him. He's looking at her, she's looking at the grave.   
It's a little awkward, the silence that follows. For him anyway, she seems to be in thought. It'd be best to just leave her alone to - mourn, if that's what she came here for. _Or destroy his grave like that other idiot._ But just as he's about to turn and leave, she speaks up.   
  
"Did you know him?", she asks, her gaze now on him instead of the grave.   
  
And he really doesn't know what to say.   
  
"Don't know", he says (it's the truth after all), "kinda."  
  
She frowns a little, surprised by his answer.   
  
"How is that?"   
  
Normally he'd be irritated by this kind of nosiness, but right now, it's okay, somehow. But he ignores the question.   
  
"Why, did you know him?", he asks back. Anxiety is creeping up on him again. Maybe she was a lover of Reddington, or his daughter, or a confidant -   
  
"No", she says, ending his trail of thought and sending relief through him. "I mean, I probably should have." She shrugs uncomfortably, seemingly unsure whether to keep talking or not. After all, Ressler is as much a stranger to her as she to him. He just keeps looking at her; doesn't want her to tell him something she'd regret later. On the other hand he's curious: what secrets did Reddington have?   
  
"I", she starts, then pauses, " - I got this letter a few days after his death. It was from Reddington. I knew him only from the Academy - we, we had seminars about him and his criminal empire. He was just a name, a theoretical person somewhere out there, unreachable. And then this."   
  
\- "You're an Agent?", Ressler asks. This is getting more and more interesting.   
  
"Almost", she answers, "still at Quantico for another week."   
  
She gives him a sweet smile and he nods in return.   
  
"Well, good luck then", he says. He should really leave her alone with whatever problem she's having. And as much as he's curious, he can't dive into Reddington's life yet again - he'd never come out alive. So he has to leave before he reaches the point of no return, as long as he still _can_.  
  
"Wait!", she calls after him and he stops - she should really let this go. "I - I need help. I don't really know where to go from here and, well, you seem to have known him, kinda."   
  
Oh God, how he knows that feeling - he can really understand her, but - he should just go and not look back. This, right here, will cause him only more trouble and it's not like he doesn't have enough of this himself.   
  
"I can't help you, miss. I'm just the guy who killed him. I didn't know him." It's easier than he would have thought, speaking those words out loud. His heart is still racing, though.   
  
Her eyes go wide with surprise and recognition. "You - you're Agent Ressler?", she asks, and when he nods, says: "You're like a hero. I mean, chasing Reddington down couldn't have been an easy task, but _killing_ him? That's a whole different story!"   
  
_Oh, how it is_ , he thinks, yearning for the days when he was still chasing him, no, even better, the days when he didn't even know who Raymond Reddington was.   
  
He can't help it - he just chuckles in response, the absolute absurdity of it all crashing down on him. "Yeah, sure."   
  
She looks at him, her eyes pleading, showing a familiar kind of pain when she asks: "So can you help me?"   
  
He sighs, knows he should tell her no and leave; leave, and never come back. But he doesn't even get the chance to do so, or ask what the problem is, or tell her yes. She keeps talking. She's probably figured out what he's about to do.   
  
"See, I got this letter. Reddington wrote it to me, expaining all sorts of - things. About me, about my family. That he knew my parents well - they, they died when I was four. I don't really remember anything about them. And knowing that Reddington did, taking it all to his grave, it's - I don't know, I'm confused and scared and..." She sighs, shaking her head.   
  
"So what do you want me to do? I can't tell you anything about them, if that's what -", he starts but she interrupts him.   
  
"No, it's another matter. Two, actually. You - you spent a lot of time chasing him, digging up all sorts of relationships and the like, right?" - "Yeah, sure, wh-" - "Have you ever heard of Katarina Rostova?"  
  
  
It's charming really, the way she doesn't let him finish. "Yeah, of course. She's dead. Committed suicide a long time ago."   
  
But she shakes her head. "That's what I found out when I did my research, too. But Reddington said she may be alive. And if that's the case then I need to find her."   
  
"And you trust the writings of a dead man? Do you even know if that letter is authentic?" This whole story is intriguing, and yet he should keep away from it.   
  
"I can't be sure. But I have to trust it. He seems to know a lot about me, which is - kinda scary, I guess, but maybe, with his help, I can find out where I come from."   
  
"And what has Rostova to do with this?", he asks. _Stop this_ , his head screams, _you're making it all worse!_  
  
"According to Reddington, she's - my mother." She seems to be holding back tears now; empathy spreads in his chest, warm and hollow, but he can't do anything to help her.   
  
"I'm sorry. All I know is that she's officially declared dead."   
  
She nods, a sad but thankful smile lighting up her pretty features.   
  
"And another thing", she says, "that should be of interest to you. Or, to the FBI for that matter."   
  
He frowns, his interest piqued yet again against his will. "And what's that?"   
  
She looks around to see if anyone's near-by. There isn't.   
  
"There's this flash drive that was in the envelope along with the letter? When I opened it, there was a list full of - names, with dates and locations and short descriptions. All of them criminals of some sort, most of whom I've never heard of. In the letter he called it 'the Blacklist'; said they're his farewell present to the FBI, to me, and that I should go and do some good. And he said that they're all connected somehow; that at the end, when we've solved this... puzzle, we'll get to something called _the Fulcrum,_ whatever that means. But it's supposed to uncover a global conspiracy of some sorts."   
  
  
A global conspiracy? A puzzle? He knows Reddington could be dramatic, theatrical even, but this? This seems to be a little much.   
  
  
He chuckles, "Well, good luck then. But I'm through with Reddington's games. Have a nice day, Miss -?"   
  
"Keen", she says quickly, "Elizabeth Keen. And I don't think you're through with this."   
  
"And why's that?", he asks, frowning.   
  
  
"He mentioned you in the letter." His heart stops - just for a millisecond, but - and for another millisecond he's sure he's going to faint. "What?", he asks confused.  
  
"Yeah. He said he wanted you on the taskforce that works on the Blacklist. He wanted to be sure to give the cases in capable hands who get the job done. That it won't work without you."   
  
And Ressler shakes his head, ignoring the dizziness and the nausea that return now, just like the surge of panic that cuts through him - he can't, _can't_ go back - he needs to forget Reddington, not work day after day after day with the criminal's ghost - he - - - _Reddington appreciated my work - capable hands - God, these hands can do so much more - stop it, stop!_ \- - -  
  
"As I said, it's over, Keen. Reddington's dead. He has no saying in who gets to work on what taskforce, or even if there'll _be_ a taskforce for this Blacklist. I'm through with him."   
  
She looks at him with big, sad eyes, understanding and pity dawning on her.   
  
"Then why are you putting flowers on his grave?", she asks quietly as he's about to leave.   
  
He pauses, wonders if he can tell her the truth, decides against it.   
  
"...Because some drunk idiot destroyed it last night. This is the least I can do."   
  
There's a pitiful smile on her lips now, and although her tone is gentle, her words still cut his chest open.   
  
"You feel guilty."   
  
_Yes, of course I fucking do_ , he wants to yell at her, but doesn't. She's right, after all, and this is not her fault. It's his alone.   
  
  
"Good luck with your Blacklist", he says courtly, but when he turns and walks away, he feels two pairs of eyes on his back: Elizabeth Keen's, and a dead, shallow gaze.  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

He aimlessly walks around town for hours afterwards. He's on leave right now with nothing else to do, anyway. It's just getting dark when he feels the first drops of rain. They're cold and hard and unforgiving _(nothing like the diamonds in his dream),_ making him shiver, and he seeks shelter in a bar. He knows he probably shouldn't drink after last night, but he's here now and his head is still spinning from his meeting with the young agent-to-be. He doesn't want to think too much about it though (best to just forget all about it, let her do her thing without bothering him, and all is well), so instead he orders a beer, mindlessly staring at the tv screen opposite of him while he drinks it.   
  
And then he makes a decision. Something that's been going through his mind for a while now, and he checks his watch - not too late yet -, gets his phone out and makes a call.   
  
It doesn't take too long, and his superior is surprised but understanding, and he just needs to fill out a few forms once he's back at the bureau. Then the guy who's stepped in for him now, leading his team during Ressler's absence, will take over his position permanently, and Ressler will be back as a normal field agent. If he wants to get rid of everything that reminds him of Reddington, then that promotion sure as Hell needs to be undone. And now it is, as soon as the bureau gets the right forms with his signature.   
  
  
Putting the phone back into his pocket, he feels a heavy weight on his chest, and he expects it to lift off, become lighter, disappear, but it doesn't; it stays there, mocking him for his poor life choices.   
  
  
So he downs the rest of his beer, orders a double whiskey, downs it right at the bar, pays, and leaves.   
  
  
The rain hasn't stopped; it's become heavier, washing the people off the streets so he's almost alone to soak in his misery. Whatever.   
  
His shoulder starts hurting again; he takes a pill against the pain. Knows he shouldn't combine it with alcohol, but on the other hand, it can't go worse than last night.   
  
His feet carry him along entwined streets until he's standing in front of Gale's door. He can't do this any longer - he's decided that in his hours of wandering around; he needs to get rid of the weight of Reddington's ghost, no matter what, and maybe he needs Julian's help to do it, or just his embrace, his closeness; his trust. Maybe it's time to finally tell him. So he rings the door bell, not knowing what to expect or to say exactly.   
  
Julian opens a few moments later; his hair's a mess (as on most days), his frown deep as he sees Ressler standing there, completely soaked through, and he needs a second to open the door completely.   
  
"Christ, Donnie, come in", he says, and Ressler complies. Inside, it's much warmer, much more comfortable, and he's glad.   
  
"Uhh, sorry for the mess, didn't know I was gettin' company tonight." And it's not much messier than he's used from Gale - a few empty bottles here and there, some worn clothes on the floor and over different pieces of furniture, a half empty go bag in the corner of the room - so he just shakes his head and says: "Don't worry. Nothing I haven't seen."   
  
"So, you done figuring things out? Or have you just missed me?", Gale asks, clearing his couch from papers and folders and a pair of pants.   
  
"Both", Ressler says, but he doesn't sit down, only takes off his soaked coat and hangs it over a chair. He needs to stand now, to pace, to be able to not look at Gale when he says what he came here to say. Julian frowns, half-grinning, looking at him in anticipation.   
  
"Really? Let's hear it then." He leans back on the couch, his gaze never leaving Ressler as he starts pacing in the small space.   
  
He really doesn't know where to start. With the dreams? With his encounter with Keen?   
  
"I visited Reddington's grave today", he says, halting. Gale doesn't need to know that today was the third time already. He looks to the ground, silent, searching for words. Gale is still on the couch, waiting for him to continue, unwilling to interrupt his partner.   
  
"I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing", he confesses, "Reddington - he's everywhere."  
  
He takes a deep breath, looks over to Julian. He can't hold the gaze for long. "Look, I don't know what's going on or why or what's wrong with me, all I know is that he's been haunting me ever since I - - -" He takes another deep breath, tries to relax. "- ever since I killed him. I'm - dreaming about him; seeing him. Sometimes it's like he's there in the room with me, touching me, talking to me - Jesus, today I even answered him." Chuckling humourlessly, he lets his head sink; it feels too heavy. "This is driving me crazy."   
  
Julian stands up now. "That's why you've been pumpin' your body full of drugs?"   
  
"Not _full of drugs_. Just sleeping pills. I needed those dreams to end - they were - - - I don't know how to describe it."   
  
"Nightmares? Full of blood and death? Horrible, terrorizing, terrifying?", Julian suggests. Ressler shakes his head. "Beautiful; blissful", he says before he can stop himself. Julian chuckles.   
  
"Then where's the problem?", he asks. He doesn't _understand_ \-   
  
"It's - upsetting. They feel so real, and it's like Heaven, but then it ends and I know I can never have that. And the worst thing is that it's not Audrey in them or anyone else, but Reddington. I just don't understand it, Julian." And now he looks up again, right into Julian's eyes, and he feels his voice break. "I just want my life back."   
  
And Julian closes the distance between them, hugging him tightly. Donald tenses for a second, then lets himself fall into the embrace, savouring the warmth and the closeness, enjoying Julian's hands around his torso. "How do you do it?", Ressler asks after a few moments, "Live with all the ghosts?"   
  
He can feel Julian shift a little. "I ask them for forgiveness", he says, "Maybe you should do the same."   
  
And Ressler's hold gets tighter, "And what if he won't forgive me? What if he doesn't let me go?"   
  
"It only works the other way around, Donnie. _You_ need to let _him_ go."   
  
He shakes his head against Julian's shoulder; feels his body heat, the rough fabric of his shirt, smells the familiar scent of his aftershave and deo. It settles him a little, although the anxiety doesn't leave completely.   
  
"...but what if I can't?"   
  
  
  
  
He feels Julian's head turn, his lips now at Ressler's ear, pressing a light kiss to the sensible skin. "You can, Donnie. I know you can."   
  
He feels like crying, but he won't. Maybe he just needs to let himself fall - knowing that Julian is there to catch him. So he turns his head towards his partner, Gales lips now at Ressler's temple, Ressler's own lips at Julian's throat. He's not sure if it's a real kiss, it's more like an accidental brush of skin against skin, mouth a little open, his breath hot against Julian's neck. And Julian leans down now, kissing his cheek and then the corner of his mouth, and for a moment Ressler tenses, pictures of a dream coming back _(he's out of breath, suffocating under Julian's gentle touch.),_ paralyzing him.   
  
Julian stops abruptly, stumbling back from the embrace. "Shit, Don, I'm sorry, I thought -", and Ressler looks at him, shoving the memories of the dream away, but not quite being able to move. "Shut up and keep going", he says, and Julian's face would be hilarious right now if Donald didn't want him to move as soon as possible. "You, you actually -"   
  
"Kiss me", he says, "now", and Julian doesn't need another invitation.   
  
  
He closes the distance between them once again, taking Ressler's head in his hands, pulling him closer, caressing his hair and his cheeks and his throat; lips and tongue and teeth clashing and dancing, deepening the kiss until they're both panting, and Ressler pulls the shirt out of Julian's pants, slipping his hands under the fabric to get access to the warm skin underneath, pulling closer, scratching, needing, needing his next fix.   
But it's not nearly enough - he needs to get that shirt completely off - so he starts working on those buttons, moaning when Julian stops kissing him, and instead attacks his throat, lightly biting and nibbling, kissing and licking, sending shockwaves through his body. He's done with the buttons and slips the shirt over Julian's shoulders to the ground, and Gale wants to do the same, tearing at buttons, feeling and mapping out skin, but then he stops all of a sudden.   
  
"What is it?", Ressler asks, both panting, still close enough to feel each other's heat.   
  
"Your wound", Julian says.   
  
"Screw the wound." It's not so bad anyway, and the painkillers are doing their job.   
  
"Yeah, I'm not gonna do _that_ ", Gale says and grins, and then they are kissing again.   
  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
It's absolutely amazing - Ressler had almost forgotten how great sex can be; it's been far too long and he can very well get by without it, but right now, as Julian rolls off of him, breathing hard, minding Don's injury, he wonders why on earth he hadn't thought about this earlier.   
  
Even Reddington was gone for the time being - he was just in the moment with Gale; nothing else mattered. And now he feels way better than before, the weight he's been carrying around since his phone call that evening has disappeared, and he can finally breathe again. He looks over to Julian who reaches for a pack of cigarettes on his nightstand.   
  
"You mind?", he asks, and Donald shakes his head. "Go on."   
  
So Julian lights a cigarette, puts the pack away again, and takes a drag, breathing out smoke with a content sigh. Ressler rolls onto his side, his fingers reaching for the cigarette.   
  
"You mind?", he asks, not waiting for an answer before he takes it out of Julian's fingers and takes a drag himself.   
  
"Thought you'd stopped?", Gale asks, and yes, Ressler technically _has_ stopped, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy a cigarette or two when he has the opportunity. And he can't say he hasn't missed the feeling even a little.   
  
"That's your bad influence", he jokes, taking another drag and giving the cigarette back to Julian who chuckles.   
  
"So, I - I didn't ask earlier, but those dreams you told me about." He takes a drag, breathes smoke into the air. "Were you tellin' me you're having like, sexy dreams about Reddington?" Ressler can see the grin tugging at Gale's lips, and he can't help but laugh himself at how absurd it all sounds. It doesn't matter right now that it's true, and upsetting him and all, because it's so far away at the moment.   
  
"Well, not exactly - sexy, as in wet and hot, if that's what you wanna know." Julian grins now, eager to hear more, and Donald groans in playful annoyance. "Like, we're kissing and embracing, but that's as far as it goes. It's really... peaceful though. Like I need nothing else in the world. Which is probably why they're so frightening. I've never felt anything like that before, not even with Audrey, and, you know, I always thought she was the love of my life."   
  
Gale offers him the cigarette again, and he takes it, breathing in hot smoke and relishing that feeling in his lungs before he releases it.   
  
"Turns out she isn't?", Julian suggests, and Donald pauses for a second. "Guess not", he says. He hasn't thought about her for a long time. Julian hums his comprehension, and Ressler can see in his eyes that Gale's mind is drifting off.   
  
"But you...", he starts, grasping for words or thoughts or wondering how to put it, how to articulate it, or maybe he's in conflict about whether to ask the question or not. "Uh, you, you didn't... _think_ about Reddington just now, did you?"   
  
  
Ressler sees self-consciousness flash through Julian's eyes.   
  
"No", he says truthfully, "and it's been probably the first time since his death that he was completely gone. So, uh, thanks, I guess."   
  
He feels a pang of guilt at this, though - maybe Julian thinks that Ressler has only used him to get rid of Reddington's ghost - that he didn't _want_ this - and Julian was only a means to an end - - -  
  
But Julian laughs _(and Ressler compares the laugh only briefly to Reddington's),_ stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray on his nightstand, and turns back to Donald, grinning.   
  
"Well, I'm glad, partner."   
  
And Ressler leans over to him, kissing him again, and Reddington is gone.   
  
  
  
He's gone until Julian is asleep next to him later, head on Ressler's good shoulder, arm loosely wrapped around his torso.   
  
Donald's eyes are closed as he's trying to fall asleep, hope slumbering in his chest that maybe with Gale by his side it would be possible and he wouldn't need the pills _(they're gone)_ or great amounts of alcohol. But that hope is dying bit by bit with each passing minute. An hour or so later - it's hard to guess when everything's fuzzy and dark, his mind a mess - he can feel the mattress dipping under someone's weight _(Reddington's)_ , and then the criminal is lying right there, beside him, mirroring Julian. Donald stares. Wants to ask, _what are you doing here?_ , and, _you're supposed to be gone now_ , (then again, he's supposed to be dead, anyway), but no sound leaves his lips. Can't risk waking Julian, too.   
  
Reddington looks up, eyes big and sparkling with mirth, before he leans up to capture Ressler's lips with his own. And Donald is overwhelmed with the feelings that wash over him - complete peace of mind (at long last, but not lasting long, he knows, the mornings bring sorrow after all), sparks lighting him on fire and dragging him with them, down, unescapable, but he willingly lets himself burn if it's just for another kiss. And Reddington's lips are soft and gentle, pushing and tugging at the right places, and Ressler sighs as his yearnings are fulfilled at last.   
  
Next to him, Julian stirrs, and Reddington breaks the kiss. It feels like a loss all over again, darkness and a merciless cold tugging at him, and Reddington looks at Julian's sleeping form long and hard. His own rapid heartbeat is the only thing Ressler hears for a few unbearable moments.   
  
Then, Reddington turns back to Donald, his eyes utterly unreadable. There could be disappointment, or sadness, or acceptance. Donald doesn't know.   
  
"Your coldness makes me suffer", Reddington says.   
  
"Red -" It just slips out. He doesn't want to answer the dead man, least of all call him a nickname. His gaze drops to Julian, but he's fast asleep.   
  
"That's what those hyacinths you put on my grave mean. Do you really think I'm cold?"   
  
Donald swallows. He can't have this conversation here - or _at all._ Maybe he should go see a shrink after all.  
  
"Well, you're dead, so I guess you're literally cold", he deadpans, a vain attempt to put distance between him and his emotions.   
  
"So me being dead makes you suffer?", Reddington concludes, and if that doesn't hurt. It's like a hit in the stomach with a baseball bat, once, twice, until every single bone is mere dust.   
  
He wants to yell, _just leave me alone, for fuck's sake_ , or, _why can't you just fuck off_ , or, _I don't care about you, I don't care about you, I don't care about you!_  
  
Out comes a single: "Yes." He's surprised at his own honesty, but it feels good, knowing you don't have to lie. A sad smile tugs at Reddington's lips.   
  
"I'm sorry", Reddington says. "Forgive me."   
  
And that's not right, Ressler thinks, - "Red -" - _he_ should be the one saying those words, but when he opens his mouth, the only word that comes out is "Red", and he can feel a stray tear on his cheek, as he's yet again unable to let the criminal go, unable to keep him here too, and, worst of all, unable to forgive.   
  
"It's time to wake up, Donald", Reddington says and kisses him good-bye.   
  
"No", he mutters, wishing him to come back as the world slowly shifts, "Red -", and becomes lighter (heavier though), and Julian is awake next to him, gently shaking his shoulder.   
  
"Hey, Donnie", he murmurs, "c'mon, you there?"   
  
And Ressler blinks - his eyes are oddly wet - and swallows - his lips are burning -, drawling out a quiet, "What?"   
  
Julian chuckles, then swipes one of the tears off of Ressler's cheek with his thumb. "You've been dreamin', darlin'. Saying 'Red' over and over."   
  
"Oh", Donald says. Then Reddington hadn't been here after all; it's just been another dream - a far too realistic one.   
  
"I hope it was at least worth it", Gale says, winking. "Any juicy details?"   
  
And Ressler actually snorts at that. "No, just - kissing", he says, then halts. He thinks back, his smile fading. "He asked me for forgiveness."   
  
And Gale's grin vanishes too. "And?"   
  
Ressler shakes his head. "I couldn't do it. Couldn't say anything other than his name, actually - couldn't tell him that it should be me asking him. I guess I screwed it up again." He sighs, long and tired, and as he closes his eyes against the world, Gale's lips are at his temple, kissing him sweetly. "You're gonna get through this", Julian whispers. And he's not sure, but everything is getting weirdly soft and he might be slipping back to sleep. 

  
  
//  
  
  
  
When he wakes up again after blessed blackness and heavenly quiet, the empty space next to him on the mattress is almost cold. He can hear the shower running in the bathroom though, so he lays back, staring at the ceiling of the room. Maybe he should join Julian; if not in the shower, then at least on his way to work. He could fill out the paperwork, meet his substitute - or, more like, S.O.-to-be.   
  
Maybe ask Julian out for lunch. Or for dinner, even. He's not quite sure though if he should really take that step - it would probably feel like using Julian to forget Reddington; degrading him, making him feel like some sort of consolation price. He doesn't want that. He wants to fully commit _(like in the dreams, knowing he needs nothing else -)_ and not be with Reddington half the time.   
  
So he pushes the thought away; no date then, just sex. If Julian wants to keep this going, anyway. It's probably weird, sleeping with someone who dreams of making out with dead criminals.  
  
  
Julian steps into the room (and Ressler hasn't even noticed the shower turning off), towel around his hips, hair wet. Single droplets of water are running down his torso, and Don wants to lick every single one of them off Julian's skin; wants to feel his warmth, his touch, his kiss – the thought surprises him, but then again, against popular belief, he does appreciate beauty when he sees it.  
  
"Morning", Ressler says, turning onto his side to watch Julian get dressed. He turns to look at Ressler, then grins and comes over to the bed.   
  
"Good mornin'", he drawls. There's only the slightest hestitation before he leans down to kiss Donald as uncertainty washes over him. Was it just a one-night-stand, no strings attached? Do they want more now? They'll need to talk, but not right now.   
  
"I'd offer you a coffee, but I didn't make one since I'm runnin' kinda late", he says, "been watching you sleep too long."   
  
And Donald chuckles, turning his head away in silent embarassment.   
  
"That's creepy, Julian."   
  
"No, it was actually a really sweet sight. Dunno, could get used to it."   
  
  
And yes, Ressler realizes he wants that, too, at least try it, but right now? Right now any kind of relationship is impossible with Reddington's ghost between them.   
  
  
So Ressler just grins, nodding at Julian's wardrobe. "Thought you said you were running late?"   
  
"Shit, right!"   
  
And with that, Julian hurriedly gets dressed, wiping the towel through his hair in an attempt to dry it (and failing miserably), while Donald leans back and watches the spectacle in silent amusement.  
  
  
"I'll - I'll see you around then", Gale says, stumbling not only over his towel but over his words too, like he always does when his mind is faster than his mouth, "make yourself at home."   
  
"See you, Julian", and they kiss again, short but sweet, and Ressler is really tempted to ask him out for dinner, but -   
  
He can't do it, so he holds himself back.   
  
  
And then Julian is out of the house, swearing as he stubs his toe on the door frame.   
  
He should get going, too. He needs to stop by his own flat to change the bandage, change clothes; then he needs to go to the bureau, making his demotion official.   
  
  
And then he needs to stop by Reddington's grave, finally asking him for forgiveness.   
  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
He's in his bathroom, carefully cleaning the shot wound. In retrospect, he's really lucky - no fractured lung or pieces of shattered bone that may cause infection. It's like he had a guardian angel back in Jon Travis' basement _(Reddington comes to mind, but -)._  
  
He dresses the wound when he's finished, then pulls on a fresh shirt, popping another painkiller into his mouth.   
  
  
He ties his shoes. Grabs his coat. Makes for the door.  
  
"You forgot your wallet", Reddington says and Ressler stops dead in his tracks. _Why is he back again? What is he doing here?_  
  
He checks his pockets; apart from his phone and keys _(and the pills, the damned pills)_ , they're empty. When he looks around, he can see the wallet on the desk in his living room, although he has no memory of putting it there. It's frightening, really, having lost a second memory, but not as frightening as the sight of Raymond Reddington on his couch, comfortably laying back and watching Ressler with curious eyes. And Ressler stares back.   
  
"What do you want, Reddington?", he asks. He's also fairly sure this isn't a dream (no, he hasn't fallen asleep since he was with Gale), and that thought is scarier than anything. Donald Ressler is slowly losing his mind; going insane bit by bit, dragging his dreams into reality to let them torture him there.   
  
"Well, I tried to be helpful, Donald. Just imagine what would happen if you'd get pulled over and find you have no sort of identification with you - oh, or a driver's license, for that matter. What a mess." Reddington is laughing. But where in his dreams he'd probably join in, he just feels his anger building up.   
  
"You're _dead_ , Reddington, you're not real. Isn't it enough for you to haunt me in my dreams?", he asks, then scoffs at himself. "Why am I even putting up with this", he mumbles, "I'm gonna leave. Good-bye."   
  
Grabbing his wallet off the table, he gets the Hell out of his flat, regret immediately crashing over him.   
  
  
Maybe he'll visit the grave first, and _then_ go to the bureau.  
  
  
  
So he does just that. Get it all over with.   
  
  
//  
  
  
  
The grave is as still and silent as he'd left it, embedded in loose, loose earth, adorned with flowers. _Maybe I should have brought new hyacinths_ , Ressler wonders, _or lilies, for that matter._ Then again, the hyacinths he's put in the vase just the day before (it feels like ages, though) are still looking fine.   
  
He stands there, silently looking at the headstone, reading and re-reading the words _Raymond Reddington_ over and over again, unsure what to say, where to start. He coughes awkwardly, urging himself to finally put an end to all of this. Get it over with.   
  
"So, uhh...", he begins. His head is suddenly full of cotton and clouds and weeds, smothering every thought and word before he has a chance to grasp it. In his coat pocket, he can feel the Provigil, but he won't be weak, won't take a single pill - why does he even carry them around anymore? _(For an emergency,_ his head chimes in. _As if.)  
  
  
_ Heat is rising in his body, into his head, and he's glad the wind is chilly, cooling his skin. For a moment, the rustling of leaves and the silence of his thoughts are all he can hear - it's almost peaceful, if he wasn't so tense.   
  
"Hey", he says, finally. Should he just... ask now? Or how does this whole thing even work? Maybe he should have asked Gale. Because right now, he feels like the last idiot on earth.   
  
"I guess it's my fault. That you're here. And I'm - I'm sorry for that." His heart is beating like the hooves of racing horses. "So... can you forgive me?"  
  
He holds still, barely daring to breathe, waiting for any kind of answer. But there's just the wind rushing through the trees; faraway cars; and endless silence buried in loose, loose earth.   
  
  
He clears his throat. Maybe that was really it. Maybe it's just as unspectacular as this. And maybe he can start to forget Reddington now.   
  
"Well, thanks. And good-bye", he says, takes a last look at the grave and turns to leave Reddington for good - honestly.   
  
  
  
//  
  
He's sure he's about to get a stroke when on the short way to the bureau, he gets pulled over by the police for a routine check. He's laughing as he pulls out his wallet from his coat; it's better than suffocating, anyway.   
  
  
//  
  
  
It's nice being back at the bureau. Although it's only been a week, it feels like months have passed.  
  
His team greets him with with beaming grins and kind words, and he chats with them, catching up, when he's suddenly being spoken to by a voice he doesn't recognize. When he turns around, a tall, friendly-looking man stands opposite of him, offering Ressler his hand.   
  
"You must be Agent Ressler." 

And Donald takes the hand, shaking it.   
  
"Yes, sir. I assume you're Harold Cooper?" He hopes he got the name right; he's only read it one or two times, and his head hasn't exactly been in the best state lately. But the man smiles and nods.   
  
"That's me. Why don't we continue this in your office?"   
  
Ressler frowns as they make their way to the office. "It's _your_ office, sir. I take it the bureau has informed you about my decision to step down from the post?"  
  
Cooper holds the door open for Ressler, letting them in.   
  
"Yes, I was informed. But as it's not official yet, this is still your office."   
  
Ressler takes a seat in the visitor's chair, Cooper behind the desk.   
  
"Well, I'm actually here to make it official. Filling out the proper forms, all that."   
  
Cooper has his hands crossed on the desk, looking at him with sharp but gentle eyes.   
  
"And I'll let you do that. But before, let me ask you a few questions."   
  
Furrowing his brow, Ressler unconsciously sits up straighter. Is this some kind of interrogation? Has this to do with - the memory loss, the pills, _(Reddington)_ Gale - could he get himself into more trouble than he already is in?   
  
"How's the shoulder?"   
  
A harmless question; but (and he's probably being paranoid right now) strategically flawless: relaxing Ressler, establishing a friendly connection - _God, this is all bullshit.  
  
_ "Better, thanks."  
  
"Good to hear. There's no need for being tense, Agent."   
  
And that actually relaxes him. Cooper really has this honest, genuinely caring touch to him.   
  
"There's been a new development on the Reddington-case", Cooper says, and just hearing the word _Reddington_ makes Ressler tense up again.  
  
"Reddington is dead, sir", he says, wondering how often he's said these words in the last couple of weeks. It almost feels mechanical to say them, like a self-defence-mechanism, like he doesn't mean it.   
  
  
"Thanks to you, yes. But a young agent has apparently gotten a letter with information by Reddington. _From_ Reddington, right after his death."   
  
"Elizabeth Keen was here?", he asks, shocked. He hasn't thought about their encounter since turning up on Gale's doorstep.   
  
"You know her?", Cooper asks, interest visibly piqued.   
  
He hesitates. He kinda does, yes, but - telling Cooper he met her at Reddington's grave just seems a little too much.   
  
"I met her", he answers instead, "and if she came here to ask me about that Blacklist-taskforce, I already told her I won't be joining."  
  
Cooper looks at him, assessing, pondering.   
  
"She did come here to speak with you. And when I told her you weren't here, she explained the situation to me. About that _Blacklist_ , Reddington's letter. And his conditions. One of them was that you're in that taskforce."  
  
Donald shakes his head; this is madness.   
  
"Is the bureau really considering this? 'Cause if you ask me, sir, this is just one more of Reddington's games. Something to have us run into another brick wall, to waste resources and get nothing at all out of it."   
  
And at that, surprising Ressler, Cooper nods.   
  
"I think you're right. But we can't know for sure until we've looked into it, can we? So we decided to give it a try. Assemble a taskforce, follow Reddington's leads, see where it goes. So, as soon as you're back on duty, I expect you to be part of the taskforce and do everything you can to make it work."   
  
Galloping, his heart races. This can't be true - he won't - _can't_ \- do this. Not when he's so close to finally burying Reddington for good.   
  
  
"No, sir", he says, his own words sounding strangely alien in his ears, surprise at uttering them making him sit up straighter. Cooper looks up, frowning. Neither of them have expected that answer.   
  
"Agent? In case I haven't made myself clear, that was not a request." It's the first time in their interaction that Ressler sees something other than the gentle good nature in Cooper's eyes. He swallows.  
  
"I know, sir", he says, and he might go too far now, but he really can't take that job - not ever, but especially not now - - he needs to forget _(forgive and forget)_ , not be reminded of Reddington on a daily basis, "but I can't do it. I'm through with Reddington. He's taken enough from me, and I won't give him anything else. Neither my time, nor my -", _sanity_ , he wants to say, but that would raise questions he's not willing to answer, so he says, "energy." It's close enough, anyway.   
  
Cooper nods. Ressler can't read anything in the older man's eyes.   
  
"I can understand that, Agent Ressler, but -"   
  
"No _'but'"_ , Ressler blurts out, unable to keep it to himself now, "I said I'm done. I've killed him, I've buried him, and if he wants me to dance to his tune, then he can damn well want it all he likes, but I won't do it. He's _dead_. He has nothing to say anymore, and he has no right to tell us how to do our jobs, or _who_ does them, for that matter."   
  
Ressler stands up, taking a step towards the desk. "Now I'd like to fill out that paperwork."  
  
  
Cooper leans back in his chair, eyeing Ressler in contemplation. The moment stretches and Ressler gets the slight impression that Cooper won't give him the forms he came here for in the first place, until Cooper sighs.   
  
"Quite honestly, I don't know if I should be impressed or disappointed. I do respect your view of the situation, and I know that you've been closer to the Reddington-case than any of us. And that it probably affected you the most. But still, without you, there will be no taskforce. Reddington has made himself clear."   
  
Ressler groans in frustration - _what the fuck?_ Hasn't he just said what he thought about the whole thing? Loud and clear?   
  
  
"You can try all you like, Donald, but in the end, I'll always win." It's Reddington. He's here - his _voice_ is - and - - - his breath is getting faster as he tries to ignore the criminal's presence, the lightest brush of air against his neck. "I appreciate your efforts though. But I guess you prefer to keep running for the rest of your life."   
  
Ressler closes his eyes against the sudden surge of heat that takes over his body, and lets himself fall back into the chair.   
  
"Are you okay?", he hears Cooper's voice on the edge of his senses, "Agent Ressler?", and he tries to nod and concentrate. The Provigil comes to mind again, the shape of the small bottle burning through his clothes.   
  
  
"Reddington can't control it", he says, and the airy touch is getting colder, "so it doesn't matter if I'm on the taskforce or not. What is he supposed to do about it?"  
  
  
Lips are ghosting over his own lips, cold and soft and full of promise and death, divine and despised at the same time. "Oh Donald..."   
  
  
"No, he can't", Cooper's voice is getting to him, "are you sure you're alright? I can get you a glass of water."   
  
"I'm good. All good, thanks, sir", he says, and his words sound wrong even to him. Cooper hears it, too, but doesn't mention it again. It's hard, resisting the invisible lips, but he must.  
  
  
"About your question: Reddington can't control it, no. But Dembe Zuma can."   
  
\- "His bodyguard?", Ressler asks. "What has he to do with all of this?"  
  
  
"Apparently, he's acting as Reddington's substitute, or representative of sorts. He will give us the leads we need in exchange for immunity."   
  
And Ressler chuckles at that. "Nice life insurance", he says, then remembers what Keen told him. "What about the flashdrive Keen got along with the letter?"   
  
He can feel Reddington shift; an unclear movement of energy in the still space of the room; a tender warmth is spreading through his chest _(right where he shot Reddington)_ , and he needs to remind himself to breathe.   
  
"The data on the flashdrive is incomplete, unfortunately. We _need_ Dembe. And without you, we won't be able to get the information we require."  
  
Ressler sighs. He has one last try.   
  
"What if it's not worth it? If it's all hot air to get that immunity agreement?"   
  
"Then we dissolve the agreement. It's only valid while we get useful information that otherwise, we wouldn't aquire. If it turns out that the whole conspiracy-thing is a fraud, or that we don't get the high-level-targets we were promised, we end the whole thing."   
  
Ressler absolutely hates the fact that this is all reasonable. That it's for a greater good, even. That things like that are the reason why he joined the FBI - to do good. To get the bad guys and put them behind bars. And right here is a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity that he should be happy to take, but -   
  
"Why don't you just give it a try, Agent Ressler? Think of all the criminals who run free at this moment and we don't even know they exist. But with Reddington's list, we can identify them. Arrest them. That's what we're all here for, after all, isn't it?"   
  
And Ressler nods. It sounds good and promising, but it also makes him believe that he won't come back from that job as a whole.   
  
"The forms, please", he says. "I'll think about it."  
  
  
  
Then again, he hasn't been whole in a long time.   
  
  
  
  
//   
  
  
  
He steps out into the fresh air, face pale, Reddington's presence finally gone again _(for now)_ , and makes for his car. He doesn't know what to do with the remainder of the day but he'll figure something out. Maybe he should take a bit more time for himself. Relax a little, cook something, read a book. So he heads home and does exactly that, reading without catching a single word, until his eyelids get heavier and heavier with each passing minute.  
  
  
//   
  
  
  
The sea is surprisingly warm. Gentle waves are swirling around his ankles, and, as he goes deeper, around his knees and thighs and hip. The full moon makes the water glow - it's liquid silver, it's lead, carrying jewels and rosepetals, and Ressler is right in the middle of it. He can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips, pulsating through the water, the vibrations softly stirring it. He turns around to face the shore where he knows Reddington is; wants to bid him farewell, or see him one last time before he - - - _(it's easier if I'm gone, we'll both get our peace, we'll both be free - gaping holes where my heart is, but he will live and that's all that matters)_ and he sees Reddington - far, far away on the shore, alone, watching him with endless sadness, and blood is flowing from the bullet wound in his chest. It sparkles like rubies, beautiful and lonely, and in the spreading pool of blood at Reddington's feet, a field of poppies grows. Ressler's breath catches when he realizes what he has done and the whole world turns red - the ocean is a bed of velvet, the sky a sea of deep red plastic roses; scattered in between are lilies made of pearl and tin, splashes of red dirt and loose earth. Panic takes control of all his thoughts - the shore seems farther away than before, and he swims, swims through the velvet, crushing against waves and his own pulse - but Reddington is almost out of sight, almost buried again under sand and poppies and fallen stars. Ressler cries out as he lets himself drown, the sea whispering Reddington's last, weak "I love you" in an endless echo.   
  
He sinks, and the water is getting colder and colder, and he doesn't know if he'll ever reach the ground. There's nothing there. Just the ocean - empty, so naked and bare, not a single creature cringing or crawling or floating - and the echo doesn't leave him. It's comforting. The only source of warmth down here. And a few millenia later, he gives up, lets out the last breath he's still holding, sending shimmering bubbles to the surface, and he falls into Reddington's arms. Through all the time, he has been waiting, down here in the deep, and he keeps whispering, soft words to bring the life back, gently caressing the icy skin with familiar ease. It's easy, dying like this. Almost too peaceful, too beautiful a moment. Unrepeatable. "Rest now, sweet boy", Reddington says, "silence is here at last." 

  
//  
  
  
  
When he wakes up, it's still dark outside. He feels like crying again, or puking, or both maybe, but he doesn't allow himself to follow these urges. He just sits on his couch where he'd fallen asleep and drops all pretense. Thinks about the cold, wide sea, the silvery shimmer of moonlight, the poppies and junk flowers and Reddington's arms. His words. The silence and the peace that followed. "Be still, my love", it echoes, "be still and let me carry you."   
  
Ressler shivers, and as the first rays of sunshine begin to crawl over the horizon, taking away the secret shelter of the night where he can allow himself to cry, he fears he'd run out of air. He mustn't think about Reddington anymore, now. Needs to leave before these walls suffocate him and his own thoughts and memories tear him away, apart. This place is full of Reddington, even though he's never sat a foot in here.   
  
  
//  
  
  
  
Almost of their own accord, his feet carry him to the cemetery. He's decided one thing: he will ask for forgiveness every day for the rest of his life, if he has to; as long as it takes for Reddington to finally disappear. He might even beg, at some point, and wouldn't Reddington just _love_ to see that?   
  
But from the distance he can see a figure standing in front of the grave, replacing the purple hyacinths he put in the vase with white lilies. It's Dembe.   
  
Ressler considers leaving, taking a walk or something (or even going against his doctor's orders _[again]_ and going for a jog), but his curiosity takes over. He wants to talk to the man, ask questions about Reddington he's not sure he really wants the answers to - wants to get to know the criminal as he really was, not the figure his mind has made up. Wants to know about his flaws and faults so his mind can stop obsessing. Maybe this way he can find his peace.   
  
So he approaches the grave, and even though Dembe doesn't turn, he knows he has been noticed.   
  
"You had coffee yet?", Ressler asks after a few short moments where both of them have been contemplating the sight before them. It's as good a greeting as any, he reckons. And Dembe finally looks at him.   
  
"I have not", he says, his tone calm and, despite all, questioning.   
  
"Good. 'Cause I'd like to ask you a few questions. About Reddington. And I guess here isn't the proper place to do it."   
  
Dembe looks at him a while longer, then nods.   
  
"He doesn't let you go, does he?", Dembe smiles. It's a sad one, but honest.  
  
Ressler doesn't answer. It's obvious, though, and Dembe must have gathered as much.   
  
"I cannot blame you, Agent Ressler. He's hard to forget."   
  
Ressler swallows. _Yeah. Yeah, he is._  
  
"You knew him pretty well, didn't you?", he asks, even though he knows the answer.   
  
"I did. You're not going to arrest me as soon as you have your answers?"   
  
Ressler shakes his head.   
  
"I want something from you. It's the least I can do, not pointing a gun at your head. I've done enough damage as it is. And from what I've heard, you're pretty valuable to the FBI at the moment."   
  
Dembe looks at him again, and the collected calm in his eyes is unsettling to Ressler. Shouldn't Dembe be furious? Hurt? Lashing out and putting a bullet in Don's head without hesitation?  
  
"I thought you didn't want to talk here."   
  
"Right", Ressler says, and they leave the cemetery in tense silence. Luckily, the way to the next coffee shop isn't long. It's not very crowded in there as it's still early in the morning - the shop must just have opened. They each order a coffee and find themselves a table in the far corner, away from the few people who do come in occasionally, out of sight.   
  
They sit in silence for a while, Ressler staring into his cup, not sure where to begin, and he feels Dembe's eyes on him.   
  
"So", he starts, "what was he like?" It's a general question, but there's no one who can answer it more truthfully than Dembe, he reckons.   
  
Dembe takes a moment, considering his words.   
  
"He was... torn. Deeply troubled. His own worst enemy who thought that there was no way he could be redeemed. Who thought that he had become so numb to the world that his soul couldn't be saved. But I never believed this. Because under all that self-hate and vanity and even cruelty, he was a generous man. Kind, his heart in the right place, even though he couldn't see it. Or didn't want to see it. But I did. And I tried to make him see. Tried to teach him that he wasn't lost. That there was always hope for him. I don't know if he ever truly believed I knew this."   
  
Ressler is still staring into his cup. He feels even more connected to Reddington than before, hearing all this. Emotion is welling up behind his ribcage - deep sadness. Regret. - _love_.  
  
  
"But why do you want to know this, Agent Ressler?"   
  
  
He looks up. Dembe is still watching him with gentle, comforting eyes. He could lie now, say something along the lines of _just out of curiosity, I've heard so many stories, yadda yadda,_ but he decides he needs to tell Dembe the truth. He's probably the only one who can give him the key to forgiveness.   
  
  
"I still see him. And I want to know why. I asked him for forgiveness. Twice, actually, and I wanted to do it a third time when I encountered you. But it's no use. He doesn't let me go. I have a feeling that he'll always haunt me, and that he can't forgive me, no matter what I do."   
  
  
And Dembe smiles. Just sits there and smiles, steaming coffee forgotten.  
  
  
"What?", Ressler asks when the silence stretches too long for his liking.   
  
"You already have his forgiveness", he finally says, "and mine, too."  
  
"What? No - no, I-", Ressler starts, because it's not true, because it's absolutely impossible that either of the criminals could ever forgive him for what he's done. Because he's been longing so much for that release, all the weight of Reddington's soul lifting off, and he's endured too much to learn now that what he wanted all along was in his hands the whole time.   
  
"You do have it, Agent Ressler. Raymond has always known the risks of his trade. So have I. It was clear to both of us that sooner or later, he would be killed. And it was you who did it. It could have been anyone else, but it was you, simply doing your job. And in my opinion, it honours you that you feel such remorse. But believe me when I tell you that you have his forgiveness. You just cannot accept it because you cannot forgive yourself."   
  
And Ressler wants to answer, to tell him _no, fuck your honour, I_ killed _Reddington,_ but his throat is tight, it's crushed, and his eyes are stinging. He's not going to cry.   
  
"I don't understand why you came here, though", Dembe continues. "I cannot give you absolution, Agent Ressler. Neither can Raymond. Only you can."   
  
Ressler takes a deep breath against the raging storm that's tearing at his insides. This is all too much, and Dembe is looking at him like that, like on the day of Reddington's burial, those big, dark eyes, so sad, so full of -   
  
"You pity me", Ressler states. The lump in his throat makes it hard to swallow.   
  
"I do."   
  
"Great", Ressler scoffs. "Just what I need."   
  
"Do you want to know why?", Dembe asks, taking a first sip of his coffee.   
  
"Go ahead", Ressler says, "indulge me."  
  
"I can only mourn", Dembe answers, his eyes never leaving Ressler. "But you have to live with what you have done."   
  
  
And Dembe is absolutely right, Donald thinks, but he's not so sure if he _can_ live with what he's done.  
  
"How?", he asks, "How the fuck am I supposed to do that?"  
  
Dembe is quiet for a moment, silently taking another sip of coffee.   
  
"The taskforce", he finally says.   
  
"The taskforce", Ressler echoes, unamused. That is definitely not the answer he was anticipating.   
  
"Raymond wanted you to join it. From my understanding you have blocked that possibility off. Maybe you should reconsider."   
  
  
And with that, he gets up to leave, but before he's gone he turns and smiles. "There's no shame in loving him, Agent Ressler. I did, too.", and then he walks out.  
  
  
And as Ressler stares into the air where Dembe has been just moments before, he comes to realize that, _yes, I do love him_ , and it doesn't even frighten him anymore. It should, he knows, but it doesn't. It's just another part of him now, loving a man he's never really known. It's unexpected, certainly, and it hurts and burns and stings and bruises, but it also gives him peace, somehow, in some twisted way.  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
Ressler has been sitting at their table for a while longer, contemplating what Dembe has told him. And now he's outside again, on his way back to Reddington's grave to finally bid him farewell (and not like the dozens of times before, no, this time for good, this time forever, this time - he'll find peace). He gets out his phone and calls Cooper. Tells him he's changed his mind about the taskforce; he'll join it, see where it goes. Cooper is happy, thanks him, and then Ressler hangs up.   
  
That's that.   
  
_Now comes the hard part_ , he thinks as he arrives at Reddington's grave.   
  
  
For a while he just stands there, taking it all in - the forget-me-nots that sprinkle the loose earth with colour, the white lilies softly dancing in the light breeze, the merciless, cold stone with the engraved letters of Reddington's name. It looks oh so peaceful, and for a second or two he wishes he could join Reddington down there. The thought is gone as quickly as it came, though, and Ressler takes a deep breath: the air is fresh and smells like rain.   
  
"Hey", he says, looking at the headstone. "I don't know if you can hear me, but... if you do, then - I just wanna tell you I took the job, I guess. Your Blacklist-thing. You wanted me on the taskforce, you got your wish. Hope you're happy." He sighs. Wants to leave now, leave all of this behind, but his feet won't move. He needs to stay, can't just cut the strings that bind him here - he'd cut his own heart in half.  
  
"Anyway, Dembe tells me you've forgiven me before you even knew I was gonna shoot you back in Brussels. That's bullshit, Red, and you know it." The nickname slips over his lips like it's the most natural thing in the world, and he doesn't even notice it.  
  
"Death is unforgiving, you don't just play with it. But I did. I do that every fucking day in my line of work, and I never cared, I never - understood it. Those people I shot, they were just scumbags no one cared about, criminals whose lives I thought didn't matter. But with you - I have no freaking clue what it is with you, and honestly, that makes me mad as Hell. You just come along and ruin everything for me. And in some fucked up way I think it might have been for the better." He swallows. "I never meant to love you", he says, "I never fucking wanted to."   
  
"Believe me, Donald, I know." It's Reddington's voice, behind him, and Ressler turns, and there he is, the man himself, standing there as if he were alive: spotless three-piece suit, trademark fedora, no hole in his chest. Rosy cheeks and lively eyes. In the flesh. Ressler's heart stops for a second and all the What-Ifs flood his veins.   
  
"And I regret it went this way", Reddington continues. "Just imagine all the possibilities. All that could have been. Infinite chances."   
  
"You really think this could have worked out? Us?", Ressler asks sceptically, and the last word tastes strange on his tongue, but in the best ways. "That somewhere's a world where we're together? Where you want me with everything I am, and I want the real you? A you I'll get to know and we'd - we'd have everything we can't have here?" It sounds good, so bittersweet his chest aches with longing for such a life.   
  
"I can't possibly tell you. But I'd like to imagine that, loving deeply and without regret. Or maybe there's a world where we never meet. We continue our lives, not knowing what we're missing. Or a world where you're the criminal and I hunt you down. It's all possible, Donald, and I believe that in another life, we have the world like we're supposed to. Or we live in innocent, ignorant bliss, unaware of the heartbreak and tears other realities bring."   
  
"Like this one", Ressler mutters, and he wants to lean in to touch Reddington, to hold him and kiss him, but he's scared that his ghost will just vanish. That it's all just an illusion after all.   
  
"Yes."  
  
"I thought I could go on", Ressler confesses, "or that I could shove you aside by pure force of will, but I couldn't. And I blamed _you_ all along for not leaving me, for haunting me, and I got angry at you and cursed you, but - I was wrong. And I'm sorry for that. It was me who couldn't let go. Couldn't forget... or forgive. And I don't know if I will ever be able to."  
  
Reddington smiles at that, a soft little smile, full of love, that Ressler has never seen before. It warms his heart in ways he couldn't have imagined.   
  
"Oh, Donald", Reddington sighs. "You think of death as this inescapable, doomed Hell where everything just stops and you're trapped in darkness forever. But it's not that way. Death is infinite and beautiful; all your regrets, all your failures just vanish like they've never existed, and you're free. _I'm_ free now, Donald, and I'm glad."  
  
Ressler falls to his knees, fighting to hold back the tears. And Reddington is there with him, closer now, _touching him_ , hands on the sides of Ressler's face, forehead to forehead, and Ressler lets go of the tension in his body. Kisses the palm of the hand that holds him. Envies every other version of himself that gets to do this every day, unappreciating (or maybe not, maybe staring in awe at Reddington until the day they die, never tiring, never giving up, always loving and living and loving more).   
  
"But why you?", Ressler asks, "I've killed many criminals, so - why you?"   
  
Reddington takes a moment to consider his words, stroking a warm hand through Ressler's hair. The rain is setting in now, tiny drops, almost invisible and impossible to feel, spraying over the cemetery.   
  
"I don't know", Reddington says. "Maybe, in a way, I'm special to you. Maybe you realized you killed a part of yourself, and can't live with that. That you killed a part of your very own soul. You see, Donald, we're not so different after all - just two lonely souls seeking peace. And it seems I finally found mine, thanks to you."  
  
Now the tears are escaping, and Reddington is still smiling and so full of love, it's almost unbearable, knowing there's nothing he can do; no happy ending; he's lost for life.  
  
Reddington kisses the tears away, warm, soft lips on Ressler's cheek, and Ressler turns his head to kiss Reddington properly. It's like in his dreams, divine, like he doesn't need air to breathe anymore, but Reddington, just Reddington... He breaks the kiss with a laugh. Reddington looks at him questioningly.   
  
"God, how stupid I must look. Sitting miserably on the grass, kissing air."  
  
And Reddington laughs at that, fingers caressing Ressler's cheek.   
  
They stare at each other for a while - grey and green, sadness, regret, love, fondness, infinity. It's all there in each other's face, sharing the same sensations, the same emotions, the same breath and heartbeat.  
  
"I need you", Ressler says. It's all that manages to escape his lips, every other word trapped in his throat.   
  
"No, you don't", Reddington answers. "Maybe somewhere, a different you needs a different me. But not you, here. You can get by without me. It probably won't be easy, or painless, but you're so strong, Donald. And besides, you have Gale now."   
  
Ressler nods, looking down.   
  
"Yeah", he says, "and I'm glad about it. I just need to learn to love him like -"   
  
"- like you love me?", Reddington asks. "Please don't do that, Donald. It's not exactly healthy."   
  
Ressler chuckles.   
  
"You'll find your own way of loving and needing, I'm certain of it. So promise me you'll ask him out for dinner tonight, when I'm gone."   
  
_When I'm gone._ The words make his blood freeze. Take him back to reality, and why he's come here in the first place. To make peace with himself, with Reddington. To let him go. And he needs to, too. He's just not sure how he'll survive.   
  
Ressler nods again. "I will."  
  
"Good. And promise me that you'll work on forgiving yourself, too. There's nothing to be sorry for, Donald."   
  
Well there is, Ressler thinks, there are so many things he's sorry for - all the missed opportunities, the chances of real happiness, a life with Reddington. Maybe that's what he mourns most, now.   
  
"And maybe think of me from time to time, when it doesn't hurt anymore."   
  
"I will."   
  
The rain is getting stronger, and it's so sappy, really, that Ressler wants to laugh, so he does, looking up into the dark grey sky, clothes and hair soaking through. Only Reddington is as dry as on the sunniest day.   
  
"Thank you, Donald", he says, and he kisses Ressler again, a sensation beyond compare, words not enough to describe the divinity of it all, the sacred touch of skin on skin with no regrets for now. The sorrow comes later, but that will go, too.   
  
"I love you", Ressler whispers against Reddington's lips, eyes closed, feeling only rain and lips and more rain, and always more rain as the lips are fading and cold water on his skin is all that's left.   
  
He can feel he's alone now, but he doesn't stand up. Doesn't leave. Tastes the rain that's washing away the last traces of Reddington, and is surprised by the calm that has taken over his body and mind. He's not angry anymore, not at Reddington, not even at himself. The loss is still there, hurting in the back of his ribcage, but like a dull pulsation, sending rushes of warm blood through his body; he needs it, he figures.   
  
  
He feels more at peace than in a long time, even before he's known who Raymond Reddington was.   
  
  
He only opens his eyes when he starts to shiver. Reddington is really gone and the world is oddly silent, like the sea after a terrible storm, all waves exhausted, and everything is still. He knows, nothing has changed for the world, but for him, it all seems new. Better, somehow, and for a long moment he has a feeling that everything will be alright.   
  
  
When he leaves, it is still raining, and the earth isn't loose anymore. Reddington is gone at long last, and Ressler is ready to heal.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_____________________fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I really hope you enjoyed this! 
> 
> Since I put an enormous amount of time in it, I'd appreciate if you'd leave some kind of feedback, that would literally make my day!
> 
> Love & sunshine!  
> -Karen ♥))


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